Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt

David Fleer had only thought being a corporate assassin was dangerous. Running a business, he decided, was worse.

He stared down through the rungs at the ground thirty feet below, clutching the creaking green ladder as it swayed under him. He was trying to hold on to the paint and the brush and the ladder with too few hands as a stiff wind pushed him around.

"I should have hired someone to do this," he said out loud. Painting wouldn't have been his first choice, but it needed to be done and it got him out of the HQ. The miasma from the Battle Wagon's hornspitter misadventure had seeped out of the garage into the rest of the building, mixing with the odors of stale humanity, machine oil, and indifferently prepared meals. Fleer felt that the air outside, for all that it was summertime in the Industrial District, was a marked improvement.

Fleer clung miserably to the ladder and gingerly reached out to apply more paint to the dull, rust-patched wall of the warehouse. The stiff brush left gobs, bubbles, and streaks as he pushed it across the wall. He was trying to carefully paint around a weathered sign and mostly failing.

The handmade sign, ill-maintained and missing letters, read:

"Riotfish, Inc. Mercenaries For Hire"

Below that, in smaller letters, a motto with more enthusiasm than grammar:

"We will Shot people For Money"

Beneath that, in even smaller letters, almost unreadable now due to age:

"Hourly Rat s Av ilable. Inqui e Wit in"

Fleer made a face. That needed repainting too. He considered his handiwork on the wall so far. The sign was definitely going to be hired out.

And they'd probably want money for it. He sighed.

The front door creaked open below him. The wind caught it and slammed it fully open, marring the fresh paint. Fleer twitched.

A squat, squarish dwarf sporting an enormous handlebar mustache popped out and hung out the door with a worried expression.

"Sorry! Boss? Mr. Fleer? There's a call for you."

"Oh! I'll be right there, D'khara." Fleer started down the ladder, which rattled and shook and nearly managed to throw him off. Dropping his brush, he grabbed the top of the rickety ladder, and winced as the paintbrush left a flat white splat on the sidewalk below. He clutched his way down the rest of the ladder and briefly marveled at the paintbrush that could not be persuaded to part with paint on a wall, but left a perfect stain on the sidewalk. He picked up the tired brush, tossed it in a bucket of water, and stepped inside.

The dim coolness of the warehouse was almost chilly after the heat outside. Fleer pulled the door to, slammed it when it failed to latch, then slammed it harder to let it know he meant business. The finicky latch finally held the door shut. He turned to his right and walked down the narrow entry hallway, with the exterior steel wall to his right, and a huge curtain to his left. It hung from the ceiling thirty feet above, making a crude sort of wall.

The hallway looped back and opened into a recreational area, which held a ragged collection of ugly furniture, a ping-pong table with a visible gap between the leaves, and a holopad two generations out of date. Little Timmy lounged on the sagging sofa. He was average height and lean, with a ropy musculature. He was dressed in a faded band t-shirt and thin ratty jeans. His eyes were ice-chip blue, with pupils shrunk to pinprick points staring intently out of a waxy, gaunt face. His prematurely gray hair was cut short, which didn’t prevent it from sticking out in crazy clumps and spikes. He was watching an action movie that featured insufficiently-clad women with improbable anatomy engaging in even more improbable firefights.

Fleer nodded at the lounging mercenary in acknowledgment as he walked through, and was roundly ignored for his efforts.

Past the rec area, against the west wall of the warehouse, was Fleer's office. He looked at the paint on his hands, and decided they wouldn't be seen in the video. He pulled a sport coat from a hanger on the wall, threw it on, and sat down in front of his computer.

He straightened his hair, straightened his collar and then punched the hold button.

"Hello!" he said brightly. "You've reached David Fleer of Riotfish, Incorporated, home of the finest and bravest mercenaries in Concordium! How can I help you today?"

The woman on the other end of the line recoiled at Fleer's sudden appearance.

"Yes," she said, recovering. "I'm Adeline Thomson, of Lemon Key Industries. I saw your advertisement in the local nets. Our company is looking for some help covering a staffing gap in the guard schedule for our facilities."

Fleer winced a little internally. Guard duty was not going to make the crew happy, but needs must.

"It is great to hear from you, Ms. Thomson. Yes! We have extensive experience with facility protection and threat detection. How many spots were you looking to fill?"

"Well, I was hoping for a little more information about your business first. We're interviewing a number of agencies, trying to be mindful of our budget."

Fleer crumbled a little more inside.

"Well, I think you'll find our services are extremely economical, without sacrificing an ounce of quality. Every job is important!"

"Excellent. I was curious, though. I searched through your site, and I couldn't find your Mercenary's Guild membership number. Could I get that from you to verify a few things?"

Fleer's smile grew a little glassy.

"I'm glad you brought that up!" he lied enthusiastically. "You see, we here at Riotfish have found that, while there are benefits to membership in the Mercenary's Guild, the requirement of a corporate sponsor risks conflicting with the interests of our valued clients!"

There was no response. He soldiered on.

"Furthermore, the savings in Guild dues and fees can be passed directly along to our customers, making our services even more budget-friendly!"

Adeline Thomson stared at him icily.

"You don't have a Guild membership," she stated flatly.

"It's a benefit for our clients, that we're able to--"

The screen blipped off as she disconnected, leaving Fleer staring at his reflection in the screen's sudden blackness.

"--to, to, to be rejected early, without all that time spent negotiating and signing contracts and maybe making some money," he finished, sagging. In the gloomy blackness of his reflection, he noticed he had a glob of shock-white paint stuck in his hair.

Fleer sighed. The Mercenary's Guild parceled out those memberships with a stingy fist. Any mercenary outfit wanting to join had to obtain corporate sponsorship.

Can't get sponsorship without doing flashy, attention-grabbing jobs. Can't get the flashy, attention-grabbing jobs without a Guild membership. Can't get the Guild membership without a corporate sponsor.

He shook his head, pushing aside the familiar, fruitless tailchasing.

There was a lead, sort of. They'd had a company reach out to them to discuss sponsorship. Fleer had been hunting for a sponsor the three years he'd owned Riotfish, and these fellows, a company called Vermiforme, had called him up out of the blue, which was a nice change. Negotiations had been slow, and if Fleer was being honest with himself for a change, Vermiforme worried him some. But they were literally the only people who'd ever even talked to him about a sponsorship.

He should give them a call, see if he couldn't unstick the process. They might be ready to discuss terms.

He did what he could to get the paint out of his hair, then poked his computer to call Yanni at Vermiforme.

The screen bleeped for an extended time, flashing and fading, waiting for the other end to pick up.

The video blipped on, showing a fellow in a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was looking away from the camera at another monitor while slurping noisily on a fountain drink.

Perhaps he didn't know he'd answered the call?

"Mr. Yanni?" Fleer said.

Yanni held a hand up to Fleer's screen while he watched the other monitor.

After a long thirty seconds, he finally turned to his call.

"Oh, hey!" he said loudly, "It's my guy David! Fleisch, right?"

"Fleer."

"Right, right, that's what I said. What's up?" He turned back to the other monitor.

"Yes, I was calling about..." Fleer frowned as Yanni continued watching the other monitor. "Um, can you hear me okay?"

"You're fine," Yanni replied, never glancing back at Fleer.

"Right, well, you may remember that you reached out to my company, Riotfish, Inc., several months ago to discuss sponsoring us? For our membership in the Mercenary's Guild?"

"Yuh-huh."

"And we filled out quite a lot of paperwork, you know, and filed our declaration of intent with the Mercenary's Guild, and paid for the application and--"

"Yep."

"And anyway, I was wondering if you had any questions, or if there was anything I could do from my end to help with the process. See, the Guild won't let the membership move forward until you finish the submission on your end."

"Uh-huh."

A long pause drew out.

"So if you--"

"Hey yeah, I need to talk to Sonam, he does all the paperwork."

"But he said you--"

"Hey, I got another call. But we're still crazy into the idea of sponsoring! That looks good for us, right? Good for us, good for you. Win-win all round."

"Right, so if you could--"

"Hey I gotta run, I'll call you back in five!"

And the screen blipped off.

Fleer knew the call was not coming, but he waited thirty minutes for it anyway.

He finally picked himself up in a huff, tossed his sport coat into his chair and walked back to continue painting. Little Timmy was still lounging on the sofa, but now the holopad was flickering, stuck between two images.

"Holopad's on the fritz," Little Timmy said.

Fleer nodded and trudged outside.