"All of the invited guests have arrived, sir."
And lo and behold, the preverbial sheep have entered the slaughterhouse. I suppose I have the stockholders to thank for this, because it was truly their meddling that helped offer the perfect hook for every central crime lord in the district. In the face of a nationwide financial crisis,
Morrigan Communications took a sizeable hit in annual revenue by a figure of at least ten percent. Of course, investors were getting anxious that the number would only increase if we didn't offer at least some sort of a major corperate deal within the next six months, but my plate was already considerably full for the near future. Quietly building up an arsenal capable to fight a war against entire squadrons of police and slaughtering the competition tends to keep one's interest occupied.
But whenever I heard that a man with powerful connections to the underworld - specifically, suspected Yazuka named Hirohito Juuma - had shown interest in becoming an investor in American businesses, I just had to set up this little song and dance to persuade him that my company was the more favorable option. You see, I don't just like to make a living by making the lives of all agents of law enforcement an absolute living hell. True, it's the primary motivation. The real goal that drives me to do the things that many would consider terrible, even inhumane.
But there's also the problem that men like Juuma generate. The idea of a rampant crime syndicate that I can't control. I want these men on my side, working towards my same idealology. Using them as pawn to dismantle a system far above even my capabilities. But as Nemesis, intimidation and murder can only get me so far. Even I'm not so vain as to believe I could take on the Yazuka. But to control Juuma as a puppet, even unwittingly? It stands the chance of lending me an advantage.
"Good to know. I'll be down shortly, Gibbons."
My chaffuer nods and departs for the main hall. I can't help but snarl. Withering old fool's beginning to make my skin crawl. And right now, that's the absolute last thing that I need. There's still the business of tonight's show to attend to, after all. I just recieved word that the shell has been delivered to The Smithsonian. All I need to do now is work to impress, win over my skeptics, and depart for the early evening.
Then I'll be rid of these leeches.
"I wouldn't know anything about a problem child, Greaves. Though I've certainly slept with more than a few!"
The dinner guests chuckle to themselves as I instruct the caterer to have another round of champagne brought to the table. The ballroom holds at least ten thousand, and it's packed for tonight's gala. Nothing like a charitable benefit to get the worms that feed out and among the living.
My business partner, Walter Greaves, grabs a glass for himself and grins. A decent enough man. I have absolutely nothing in common with him.
"You're terrible, Matthew. Never change."
I take a swig myself, glancing over at the grandfather clock on the floor above. Ten forty-five. It's nearly time.
"I never intend to, old friend. Speaking of which, how's our stock offering this evening? We're not too terribly in the red yet, are we?"
The guests turn their attention to Greaves, anxiously awaiting his answer. I give him a stern look, making sure that he understands that whatever he says could either make or break this entire evening. We need to be desperate, yes. But not so far helpless that we're easily wrote off as sunk.
"Oh. Well, that's actually what I was hoping we'd be able to discuss in private..."
I chuckle, indicating the rest of the table. Notably, Hirohito Juuma, who's been distancing himself from the table - but not so much that I can't tell that he's listening, every now and again.
"What are secrets among friends? I certainly don't believe in them."
"Well, if you insist. We've been recieving offers for the last two weeks from several overseas businesses. The sales figures could reach a record high, if we keep up on the pitch. Should be able to close up the gap soon."
I smile. Not at the news, though that's certainly what it appears to be. But at the look on Juuma's face, as he begins to whisper to his confidants. He'll be making an offer by sunrise, guaranteed.
"See? What'd I tell you all? Greaves brings nothing but good news."
Excusing myself from the table, I place my empty glass down and depart before anyone can ask where I'm heading. They'll eventually forget I was ever here, knowing the contents of the champagne that I've used to mildly drug them with. And when they've eventually settled on one another, I'll be clear to leave for the Smithsonian. As far as the police are concerned, the
dreaded Nemesis will be making an appearance there tonight, and I'd definitely hate to miss that.
"Matthew Morrigan?"
Just as I'm about to leave the room, I'm caught by a man I don't recognize, sitting at the bar. Black hair, a white streak running through it. Exceptionally well groomed. Not the typical riftraft that enjoys these parties. Even from a parting glance, there's something different about him.
"Yes? Forgive me, but I don't think I know you."
"You wouldn't, trust me. I'm a guest to the city, and I wasn't invited."
He extends his hand and smiles in a way I've never quite seen before.
"Hunter Rose. Professional gala crasher."
Hesitating to show my instant disdain, I nevertheless shake the man's hand.
But to my surprise, his grip is as strong as steel.
"Well, I hope you're enjoying the evening, Mr. Rose. I'm sorry I couldn't have formally invited you. What brings you to Washington?"
Rose idly glances at his glass, then swigs. It's as if he's trying hard to act aloof. I would know the signs.
"Oh, nothing much. I work in the writing buisness. You see, I was hoping to gain a sense of the wider culture, when one of my publishers happened to mention the party tonight. Thought it'd be a fun trip."
I raise an eyebrow.
Something's definitely off about this man.
"Can't say that I'm familiar with the line of work, myself. I never fancied myself a creator."
"We're all creators, Mr. Morrigan."
He holds his glass to the light, to check it's contents.
"It's just the extent of our drive to be that defines how we do it. An impressive formula, by the way."
I narrow my gaze.
"Excuse me?"
He places the glass on the bar, which I've just now noticed is still full.
"The champagne. The chemical compound. Impressive. I'll have to remember it if I ever have the urge to drug my guests."
He smirks at me. I don't know how he could have possibly been able to tell what was in the glasses, but my haze of politeness quickly wears thin.
"What did you say your name was? Hunter... something?"
"I wouldn't worry about it, Morrigan."
He puts on his jacket and pats me on the shoulder as he passes.
"I think you'll know all about me soon enough."
And just like that, he's gone. Leaving me with another person of interest to kill. If he was trying to impress me, it didn't work - speaking in his favor, at least.
But I'll have to leave it for now. I have something much more important to attend to.
