[color=lightgray]The email she got, the client who sent it, and the place she was meeting at were all the usual amount of suspect. But the tape recorder? That's when Maëlle started to wonder if she was walking into a plot of a new episode of Serial Killers.

	Getting killed off by a serial killer who really had it out against biker chicks? Maëlle kinda chuckled at the idea. Hell of a way to go, she thought. Even the [i]place[/i] was just run down enough to pass for the cover. Not run-down enough to give anyone the impression that the store owner had to run heroin to pay the landlord, but this place wasn't paying for the owner's yacht, either. Just the right mesh of mess and maintenance to live up to the impression of desperate living. Maybe the inconspicuous nature was helped that Maëlle threw on a set of clothes that ran the bill for your usual townie this time of the year: Really puffy rain jacket, and whatever passed for yoga pants. 
	
	Parking was always a real shitshow in places like New York, or...well, actually, almost city in America, Maëlle remembered. NYC wasn't as bad as a lot of places in the States - at least this place had a nice little lot around the corner to keep her bike. Always helped to have a quick getaway in situations like this. In Chicago or Detroit, though? Yeah, she'd run around those bends a few times before, and getting anything into or out of anything resembling a parking spot was a big of a pipe dream as American banking coming back. The whole ordeal wasn't something that Maëlle easily shook off in her head, especially when it was almost like the ancient recorder in her hand had almost felt like it was sapping out head from under her while she held it. But there was something there, something that drove her there. She guessed it was the money. Or the times. Maybe the stories? Or...

	Well, it was thinking about Detroit that gave Maëlle the reassurance she needed to at least be convinced this wasn't a [i]complete[/i] trap.

	Pressing open the front double doors, Maëlle did have the glorious storefront reveal itself unto her, with all the secrets of everything a zeroth-year art student could ever want all in her reach. Incandescent fluorescence flooded around her, the artificial brightness of the little paint shop drowning out the evening's dusk of the city's streets. Faint blues from above washed every painting on display into a deep drab, nicely complimenting the chipped floor tiles and dust-speckled wall paint in its air of decrepit depression. And all while she admired it - as one did admire the 50-something flasher in the junkie park - Senior's voice went off without a hitch. [/color]

[indent][quote]
[i]-Mr. Cheng, the shop runner, is an associate of mine. He's in the know about our business ventures, but we need spare him the details. The back room is where you'll head. There's a panel at the back of the freezer - leads to a basement.[/i]
[/quote][/indent]
	[color=azure][b][i]('Mr. Cheng', huh?)[/i][/b][/color] [color=lightgray]Old guy, too. Was even paging through a yellowed-out physical magazine. The sight made Maëlle's eyebrows raise; She hadn't even [i]seen[/i] a magazine that wasn't a cringe-inducing tabloid on the grocery store shelves that were several years out of print by the time they were put up. She always thought that all they all had gone digital for anyone who really cared about them by now, but as it turns out, the world always had a few surprises in store for old Maëlle. When Maëlle had reached her hand toward the backroom doorhandle, Mr. Cheng hardly exchanged a passing glance over, just as nonchalantly turning his eyes back over toward his late-day reading. 

	With each step of his instructions, the place was starting to turn from "backroom kickover" to "mastermind lair" with every step. The keypad? Okay, Maëlle had seen a couple in her lifetime before - all in the hands of some real old-school types. They were tried and tested, and at least she could say that they worked for 90% of the time, 25% of the time. That wasn't real out of the place, especially not for a guy like Mr. Cheng. But, the sliding wall? Staircase to a basement? Handprint security, but without the guy to put his hand on the scanner, she-[/color]

	[color=azure][b][i](Wait, the fuck?!)[/i][/b][/color] [color=lightgray]Maëlle almost shouted, her reaction sending her into a silent shock. The machine hummed to light, opening up the door to what could only be described as a virtual bunker, which reverberated throughout with the electric hum of computer after computer. [/color]

	[color=azure][b][i](How the Hell did he get my handprints...?)[/i][/b] [/color]

	[color=lightgray]It was here - at this moment in an ultra-tech basement in a no-name paint store somewhere in New York - that she knew that Senior wasn't just the regular fixer. This guy meant business. He had to know someone to get all of this - and more than likely, probably knew more people than Maëlle had ever met. But, who did she to meet? 

	Two other women. Every one of them were about the same age. All pretty well-dressed for the occasion. Same expertise too, she imagined. She looked over at her accomplices - first at the blackhead, then at the blonde - put her hands on her hips, and conjured up a look of sarcastic impression.[/color]

	[color=azure][b]"Yeah,"[/b][/color] [color=lightgray]Maëlle announced,[/color] [color=azure][b]"This is how I end up on one of those serial killer shows."[/b][/color]