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"For the third and [i]final[/i] time, Mister Turl, I can't give you any funding for this design. I would love to help you, because it looks like a great idea, but the science behind it doesn't hold up." Grant leaned back on his Technothrone -- that was what he affectionately called his chair at the head of the FTL boardroom. It could call for a drink, control numerous smart screens on the table and above it, and, in times of emergency, fly for three hours with a self contained circuit.

FTL's management facility (FTLH) was several stories about the rest of the compound, surrounded by actual nature. With enough money, you could make anything look like anything else. A floating four acres of soil was supported constantly by FTL-tech, and within this plot of land was the FTLH. It was less of a business building, and more of a comfortable business home. Which it was. Grant spent most of his time there.

The man in front of him was crestfallen, but Grant couldn't give him anything. The device was interesting, to be sure, but it wasn't feasible. "Trust me, Turl: I've learned more about science and engineering than I ever thought possible. It just isn't going to work. Not as it is. If you can fix the cooling issue, then we'll talk. Have an excellent day."

Turl left. Finally. Grant tapped on the technothrone, activating the microphone concealed within. "Sandra, send in Tomas. please."

Tomas was not Turl. Tomas was a backstabbing lowlife who had defaulted on a loan. A massive loan. There was no way he could pay back the debt, and that meant he was no longer useful to Grant. Tomas knew that pleading would be useless. There were no words between the business exec and the poor man. Only stares. Then Grant pressed another key, and clicked on a function with his trackpad.

Tomas was taken away. The execution station powered up. Problem solved.

Grant stood, stepping to the window of his comfortable abode. Only one building rose up above him, the one he wished wouldn't. The Metropolis Over-Council of Intracity Affairs did their business there. MOCIA was his true enemy. But to get to the crown of this poor, misguided city, he had to be ruthless. Ruthless and strong.

He returned to his seat. "Sandra, would you bring me a glass of apple juice?"

Ruthless and strong, but [i]tasteful[/i], that is.