"I've told you before, Smythe, the cords need to be [i]replaced[/i], not just patched up. Does this limitless mountain of money I have count for nothing? I'm tired of the breaks!" Grant rolled his eyes and pushed down on the phone's receiver, ending the call. It was the third time this month that the data able had given out on his personal computer. His mafia relied on that personal computer for their data and their orders. Without it, they were both sitting ducks and helpless savages.

After a moment of reflection upon the dismal timing, Grant released the receiver. "Hey, Angela, yes. Who is our electrician on call?"

The sharp woman, whom he'd had the fortune to hire before the other corporations, responded in her usual calm manner. It was one of the things that made her so easy to work with: the worst either of them ever got was mild exasperation. "Currently, Mr. Anders, we don't have one. The Electrotechnic Union is striking again. It won't be long, but we'll need to hire a freelancer for today. I have an applicant on file, actually. Shall I give him a call?"

"Please do." After a moment, he added "and then call our Sweeper, after. Thanks." He hung up. Sweeper: the business-world term for a Bug-hunter. His Sweeper was one of the best: if it gave off a signal, the man could find it.

Freelancers weren't just hired willy-nilly. Not by him. He had a very strict security standard, and that security had served him well in the past.

The intercom blipped again. "Anders," Angela said, showing their mutual respect by dropping the "mister", "You have someone who's filed for an attempted investment of the FTL Improvement Fund. Will you see him?"

Grant sighed. More nonsense. "I suppose. Send him to Audience room C, would you? And call up Matheson while you're at it. He can be the interrogator."

The FTL-IF had strict loan policies. Strictness helped keep Grant from spending excess on con-artists or spies. The policy wasn't [i]too[/i] strict, but Grant had confidence in it. Matheson would meet with this interested party. Grant would listen in from the technothrone. He waved over Sandra, his personal assistant. Without her and Angela, he'd have more gray hairs than brown.

"Please patch me through to our Courier, Sandra." And by Courier he meant the girl.

With his system down so often (something he meant to fix today), it had become necessary to hire someone to give orders to his teams in the field. And so he had settled on Skeet Lawless. She was his mouth when he needed something to reach the mafia quietly. Or noisily, depending on the day and the pay.

He dialed the one number he knew to reach her into his most secure cell-line. "Lawless, if it's not too much trouble for you, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop by my office for a moment."
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He had caught wind of something troubling occurring within the Metropolis Police ranks as of late. They were actually doing their job, for once, and when that happened, they tended to get a bit too close to his secrets for his comfort. The Mafia's alertness would be the first step in his operation to regain control.
---
((Basically, the first/unification subplot is beginning now.))