Fratricide

9: The Ides

Senator Gretsch was sitting on an uncomfortable couch in a forlorn office somewhere in the godforsaken pit of L1. The clamoring of humanity could be heard throbbing its impulsive dance of life in the rows and rows of towers that made up the foundation of the capital city of Prius. His normally advantageous rolls of fat were instead reservoirs of sweat and bacteria as the stifling interior of the office seemed to gradually constrict the oxygen from the room in a burning exhale. With so many people living in one place, the buildings took on the roles of bodies themselves; organs each contributing to the aimless existence of the billions of cells that resided in their increasingly cramped rooms and halls.

The tin man sitting across from Gretsch was formidable, as all mercenaries in the bottom sector tended to be. Mechanized legs for increased stability in the massive gravity of Natalis were only barely visible at the base of the flowing tails of his modern trenchcoat, a perfect blend of impracticality, fashion, and intimidation. The fact that the tin man was wearing the thing was in itself terrifying. Without saying a word the hulking mass of muscle and metal seemed to be declaring at the top of his lungs: heatstroke is for the weak!

Gretsch sneezed and reached up to wipe the percolating moisture on his furry upper lip. His ears burned with the peppermint diffuser spouting its contents like a geyser in the corner, a measly attempt at disguising the weight of flesh breathing constantly around them. Gretsch shivered despite himself, he truly hated L1. Being in such close proximity to the laborers that had unwittingly built his empire was as uncomfortable as a priest sharing a bed with a prostitute.

The tin man's patchwork face of stitches and scars belied the bulges of tech-on implants infesting the organic system underneath. The man was a walking arsenal of illegal upgrades ranging from the everyday mundane strength enhancements to the formidable carbon nanoblades hidden in virtually every conceivable place to be considered dangerous. The potential for death and mutilation hung around the man thicker than his trenchcoat. The absence of eyes certainly didn't help. Gretsch had found he could consider almost anyone human as long as they had eyes. Remove those and, well, where do you look?

It was truly a blessing that Gretsch had found himself on that inauspiciously humid day not to be the target of the tin man, but an employer. L1 was always the place to find the seediest individuals placing themselves at the behest of the wealthy who needed some dirty work done, and dirty work, Gretsch had plenty of. He hadn't risen to prominence as a senator being straight and kind. No. It was lobbying for the interests of the superior, the gods of L1 that had provided him the leg up he needed for making real changes. His constituents needed their interests met, and he was the one who always did.

Just then the door to the office slid back and a figure strode into the room. The Broker was a thin woman with white hair. Her middle-age had been kind to her, whatever strength and elegance she had possessed in her youth was amply evident even now. He close-cropped hair was as fashionable as it was utilitarian. Her all-black outfit made up of tall galoshes and a flowy dress was a practical addition to her already austere demeanor. She walked between Gretsch and the tin man and sat down in a chair strategically positioned to both their sides. She was unquestionably the facilitator of their transaction.

The Broker crossed her legs and sighed,

"Forgive me, senator. I did not expect to keep you waiting."

Gretsch spoke quickly, having prepared his response many minutes before, "you are aware I came early Broker, though it is was not a test of your hospitality."

"What then?"

Gretsch thought for a moment, "politeness." He looked over at her and smiled. The Broker knew it not to be the campaign grin that had made the man famous. His promptness was a message, "It wouldn't be so strange if I hurt you now, would it?" She knew Gretsch had killed others over more trivial matters. Unbeknownst to her, however, his wanton acts of violence were not carried away impulses but the intentional structuring of a reputation. He was not someone to be trifled with.