Five minutes later they emerged on the walkway. Joe led Lawrence in shackles from behind with the tranquilizer gun in the small of his back.
“Do you really have to have the gun pointed at me?” Lawrence turned his head back.
“Not really, but we have to keep up appearances don’t we? Keep your head forward. Besides, I’m still mad for what you did to me.” Joe grinned evilly and gave Lawrence a playful jab with the barrel. “Kidding. Remember, you’re the perpetrator scum and we’re one block away from justice.”
The sheer vastness of the sector opening up before them was overwhelming. The corporate bigwigs had added some really impressive finishing touches since Joe joined the company. Then again, it had been three years since he made the trek to the district with a payroll problem.
To the outside observer, it looked like just a bunch of sheer grey walls shaped almost together to form an octagon. Once past the exterior, within these walls was a vast array of architectural façades and sculptures. Together Joe and Lawrence marveled at the ostensible opulence.
Multi-cultural designs from different ages surrounded an area as large as Trafalgar Square. In the center was a helicopter-landing pad that was painted with the VirCorp logo (an iron gauntlet clutching a giant umbrella). Just east of this crouched Pablo Picasso’s “unnamed” vulture-like sculpture, recently purchased from the Mayor of Chicago who needed some quick cash to bury yet another scandal. Behind it stretched the Parliament building, guest suites loosely modeled on the Middlesex Guildhall if it were fifty stories high, crawling with imposing armed figures carved into the edifice.
“Ever been here before?” Joe asked.
Lawrence nodded, gaping. “When I was hired two years ago. They didn’t have all these sculptures then.”
“I reckon a dozen salaries for each one, at least.” Joe shook his head. They probably even laid-off a few VPs to get the Picasso.” He sighed, and nudged Lawrence forward. “Enough gawking. Head down.”
They passed by what looked like a museum with great Corinthian columns. A giant flowing banner dangled from the top that read “Accounts Receivable”. They must need hell of an accounting staff. Next to this was Human Resources, grim and sterile like the Reichstag.
As they approached, Joe saw six armed guards moping about on the sidewalk in front of it. They were on a cigarette break. As they got closer, Joe kept his vision locked on the main doors, nervously jabbing Lawrence in the back with the barrel.
“Hey, quit it will you?”
“Shut up! We’ve got to get past these guys—“
“Hey!” Joe looked away from the doors and saw one of the guards waving him over. He was wearing a do-rag and sunglasses. Could it be Tanzer? “Get over here!”
Joe hesitated, his heart rising in his throat.
“Yes, you. Come here, right now!”
Joe nodded and pushed Lawrence forward. As he came into range, he noticed the man was too scrawny to be Tanzer. Not weak, but not chemically buffed out. He was one of the newer crew, a wannabe. Joe smiled to himself, sighing in relief, as he ordered Lawrence to halt three meters away from the gathered security detail.
“Just where do you think you’re going, son?” Joe smirked. This kid was twenty years old, maybe, and calling him son.
“Sector Chief Richard Miller,” Joe couldn’t help but grin before he added, “sir.” The wannabe looked him up and down as his boys watched, clucking like teenage girls.
