ML
Member
Attempted Polymath
- Last Seen: 5 mos ago
- Old Guild Username: Mercenary Lord
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 1361 (0.30 / day)
- VMs: 2
-
Username history
- ML 6 yrs ago
- ██████████████ 12 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Neziul,
Scrawl Banditta,
Ohm,
erikh
Status
Recent Statuses
5 yrs ago
hey can i be a guild mod
7
likes
6 yrs ago
hey can i be a guild mod
13
likes
6 yrs ago
new name, same piss poor time management
2
likes
6 yrs ago
if you have a "craving", write a story on your own, that way when you inevitably lose interest and quit you're only wasting your own time
4
likes
7 yrs ago
factory-engines roar like false lions, blood thunders in the dock-pipes
Most Recent Posts
I think since several of us are about to dive into Camp Nanowrimo, I'm gonna put this on standby for now. Don't delete this from your subscriptions, but don't worry about it, k everyone
beep boop beebopost
Why had today, of all the days possible, been the one day that everyone and beyond had decided they needed to speak with him? First, this kid, (named as Andy Hughes by Grant's The Monitor) had decided to motormouth his way in here to ask for funding on a project of one kind or another. Great. It was something he could deal with. Let the boy down easy, or kick him out. Not a huge problem.
After that had been a chemist. The chemist he had asked for. An arrogant young man with a notebook full of ideas that would have to be carefully reviewed. The Monitor named him as Drake Romeros. Formerly worked at a shithouse. Lovely.
And as if that wasn't enough, issue three burst in only a few seconds later. A young woman, flanked by Anton and Randall. Idiots. Now witnesses had seen his dirty works. This was not good. He'd either have to kill them, or swear them to secrecy, then kill them.
His phone rang. What could possibly be going on now? He picked up the phone, never letting the blank look on his face waver. With a single finger he forestalled any speech by the entourage in front of him. "Grant Anders."
"Really, Grant, you should know who's calling you by now." Angela.
"I'm a bit busy."
"And that's why I'm not inviting you to lunch with me, sir. I just thought you'd want to know that...well, the electrician got hit by a MetPo Skyrider on his way over here. Completely his fault, they assure me. The repairs are going to take a few more hours. I've already lined up a contract, but it will be some time." 'You're welcome' were the unspoken words.
"Anything else?" Grant's fingers tapped together in a random, strange pattern. A thinking movement, something he never noticed until someone pointed it out.
"Lawless is on line four. One of your mob bosses is on line three. The board members are trying to call a meeting to discuss the Improvement Fund project. I have a regional Metropolis Police Captain on line one. Line two is clear, as are six through ten."
Grant wanted to jump out the window and end it right then and there, but he was a man with a mission. "Thank you, Angela. Hold for a second, would you?"
"Of course." The call went into a dial tone.
Grant looked up from the technothrone. "If you could all just wait for a moment, I'll be with you shortly. Anton, Randall? Get out. I'll deal with you later." His hand toyed with the dial to the sonic cannons. The two knew that leaving was in their best interests.
Next wast the Board. He picked up the phone. "Line 2," he said. "Call: Secondary Board Room.". The phone rang only once before being answered. "Hello? Smythe? Hi. It's Anders. We're not holding a meeting to review the IFP. I've looked over the incomes. We're profiting. A great deal. The IFP is my way of giving back. Don't bother me with this again." He refused to let the board interrupt the first part of his company to do good for the world.
That was always his goal, in the end. It just required focus, dedication, and ruthlessness.
Next was line three. "I'll talk to you later, an interesting proposition is here." Code for "shut the fuck up, there's people in front of me". He hung up. Lastly, the MetPo. "Officer Jameson, how nice to hear from you."
The gruff voice on the other end responded instantly. "It's about time, Anders. We've been waiting to question you about the incident for months!" Ah, the incident. A botched job by his mafia, and now the MetPo was on his case.
"Later, Jameson, I promise you. Good day." He hung up. "Now," he said, looking at the group arrayed before him. Andy, I think-" A lightbulb went off inside his head. Here he had three people. Talented. A filmmaker, a chemist-well, explosives expert, and a climbing painter. He could use this.
"I think Matheson was having an off day. Your proposition is very interesting. I accept. You can head downstairs at your earliest convenience to pick up your first stipend." He tapped in a few keys on the throne. "There it is. The basic monthly funding is thirty thousand omnicredits, so everything you need should be within reach. After the first month, A group of the board members will review your project, and then I will see if we will terminate or up your contract. I expect you to start immediately.
"However, you can't do it alone. These two will help you. On one side, you have an excellent chemist and explosives expert, as I gathered from his file, and on the other, you have a woman with an excellent eye for detail." The meaning was unmistakeable: if Trein kept her mouth shut and worked the job, then she would be allowed to live. "Naturally, both of you will receive your own stipend as well. Mister Romeros, this will be in addition to your salary, so don't disappoint me."
He reached under his desk, pulling out a trio of headsets. "Seeing as I've taken something of a...person interest in this project, I expect regular correspondence. These will show my what you see, and transmit to me what you hear. When you're working, wear them."
After a long moment of reflective silence, he continued, "I've heard that a nearby Metropolis Police station has been dealing in some...uncomfortable enterprises. Weapons trading and smuggling are serious offenses. I suggest you start there. Captain Jameson has been called a snake before, but you may just the three to really catch him on it. You're all dismissed."
Once they had left, he finally opened up line 4. "Skeet Lawless," he said, working the name around his mouth before saying it. "If it's not too much trouble, meet me in my office as soon as you can. I have a proposition for you. Think about this question on your way over: What is it that you want in this life, above all else?" He hung up. Plans made, plans set in motion. Not a bad day.
If only he could get the board off his ass.
After that had been a chemist. The chemist he had asked for. An arrogant young man with a notebook full of ideas that would have to be carefully reviewed. The Monitor named him as Drake Romeros. Formerly worked at a shithouse. Lovely.
And as if that wasn't enough, issue three burst in only a few seconds later. A young woman, flanked by Anton and Randall. Idiots. Now witnesses had seen his dirty works. This was not good. He'd either have to kill them, or swear them to secrecy, then kill them.
His phone rang. What could possibly be going on now? He picked up the phone, never letting the blank look on his face waver. With a single finger he forestalled any speech by the entourage in front of him. "Grant Anders."
"Really, Grant, you should know who's calling you by now." Angela.
"I'm a bit busy."
"And that's why I'm not inviting you to lunch with me, sir. I just thought you'd want to know that...well, the electrician got hit by a MetPo Skyrider on his way over here. Completely his fault, they assure me. The repairs are going to take a few more hours. I've already lined up a contract, but it will be some time." 'You're welcome' were the unspoken words.
"Anything else?" Grant's fingers tapped together in a random, strange pattern. A thinking movement, something he never noticed until someone pointed it out.
"Lawless is on line four. One of your mob bosses is on line three. The board members are trying to call a meeting to discuss the Improvement Fund project. I have a regional Metropolis Police Captain on line one. Line two is clear, as are six through ten."
Grant wanted to jump out the window and end it right then and there, but he was a man with a mission. "Thank you, Angela. Hold for a second, would you?"
"Of course." The call went into a dial tone.
Grant looked up from the technothrone. "If you could all just wait for a moment, I'll be with you shortly. Anton, Randall? Get out. I'll deal with you later." His hand toyed with the dial to the sonic cannons. The two knew that leaving was in their best interests.
Next wast the Board. He picked up the phone. "Line 2," he said. "Call: Secondary Board Room.". The phone rang only once before being answered. "Hello? Smythe? Hi. It's Anders. We're not holding a meeting to review the IFP. I've looked over the incomes. We're profiting. A great deal. The IFP is my way of giving back. Don't bother me with this again." He refused to let the board interrupt the first part of his company to do good for the world.
That was always his goal, in the end. It just required focus, dedication, and ruthlessness.
Next was line three. "I'll talk to you later, an interesting proposition is here." Code for "shut the fuck up, there's people in front of me". He hung up. Lastly, the MetPo. "Officer Jameson, how nice to hear from you."
The gruff voice on the other end responded instantly. "It's about time, Anders. We've been waiting to question you about the incident for months!" Ah, the incident. A botched job by his mafia, and now the MetPo was on his case.
"Later, Jameson, I promise you. Good day." He hung up. "Now," he said, looking at the group arrayed before him. Andy, I think-" A lightbulb went off inside his head. Here he had three people. Talented. A filmmaker, a chemist-well, explosives expert, and a climbing painter. He could use this.
"I think Matheson was having an off day. Your proposition is very interesting. I accept. You can head downstairs at your earliest convenience to pick up your first stipend." He tapped in a few keys on the throne. "There it is. The basic monthly funding is thirty thousand omnicredits, so everything you need should be within reach. After the first month, A group of the board members will review your project, and then I will see if we will terminate or up your contract. I expect you to start immediately.
"However, you can't do it alone. These two will help you. On one side, you have an excellent chemist and explosives expert, as I gathered from his file, and on the other, you have a woman with an excellent eye for detail." The meaning was unmistakeable: if Trein kept her mouth shut and worked the job, then she would be allowed to live. "Naturally, both of you will receive your own stipend as well. Mister Romeros, this will be in addition to your salary, so don't disappoint me."
He reached under his desk, pulling out a trio of headsets. "Seeing as I've taken something of a...person interest in this project, I expect regular correspondence. These will show my what you see, and transmit to me what you hear. When you're working, wear them."
After a long moment of reflective silence, he continued, "I've heard that a nearby Metropolis Police station has been dealing in some...uncomfortable enterprises. Weapons trading and smuggling are serious offenses. I suggest you start there. Captain Jameson has been called a snake before, but you may just the three to really catch him on it. You're all dismissed."
Once they had left, he finally opened up line 4. "Skeet Lawless," he said, working the name around his mouth before saying it. "If it's not too much trouble, meet me in my office as soon as you can. I have a proposition for you. Think about this question on your way over: What is it that you want in this life, above all else?" He hung up. Plans made, plans set in motion. Not a bad day.
If only he could get the board off his ass.
Fair enough. Bye bye
A post for you all before I go. It should give everyone something to work with. I hope.
Grant Anders had very little reaction to the young man bursting into his office. He didn't have a lock on his door, in an effort to foster trust and communicability within FTLC.
It also helped that he had multiple industrial-grade sonic cannons installed around the room. Each was on a swivel axle, and as soon as the door opened (without the opener announcing their arrival and their business), Grant casually reached under his desk and flicked the dial up to four out of ten. The cannons sent the proper amount of soundwaves at the intruder, while Grant heard nothing at all.
One on the dial was excellent for listening to music in a surround sound fashion. Four was the equivalent of a space-bound projectile's launch sequence. In other words, it was dangerous to toy with Grant when he was having a bad day.
After a few relaxed seconds of aural agony, Grant turned the dial back to one. One of his multiple relaxing playlists was what came out of the cannons next. Unless the intruder was wearing inch-thick ear plugs--or they were deaf--there would be at least some discomfort in the room, and not from Grant.
He waited for a moment, until his words would be heard properly, "I'm sorry about that, kid. I have a very strict policy about seeing people. I'm a busy guy." A little camera buzzed in, circling Grant like he was some B-Movie villain. It was a Panasonic model. Grant didn't much care for Panasonic.
"Since you've interrupted my schedule without a care in the world, why don't you take a seat over there--" he pointed to a few chairs in the corner of the room. "--while I finish up what I was doing. Unless, that is, you want me to call security." Grant returned to his throne, after which, two things occurred, both of them phone calls.
"This is Grant Anders, President and CEO of Forward-Thinking Leader Collective. I'm quite busy, so make it quick."
"Boss?" Grant sighed. It was Anton, from the Mafia. "We caught someone snooping around here that you might want to talk to. Randall was gonna off her, but I thought you'd want final say."
Typical mob tactics, try to gain favor with the important people. "Thank you, Anton. I would like to speak with her. Please hold her there until I'm able to make it to her." In truth, it would probably be a long, long time before he could be bothered to go see what they were talking about.
"No problem, boss. You have a good day." Grant hung up.
"Sorry about th--" the phone cut him off. "Damn. This is Grant Anders, President and CEO of Forward-Thinking Leader Collective. I'm quite busy, so make it quick."
"Are you okay, Anders?" Ah, it was Angela. What a woman. No fear at all.
"Fine, Angela, just stressed. What is it?"
"You have a new chemist down in the offices. And," she continued, taking the word right out of Grant's mouth, "He is the one who got traded over from PartyBuzzDrugs Inc." She said the name as if it was the most serious title ever created. "The one who we have no idea about. Point is, Anders, I think you should go down and take a look at him."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Angela, I'm already behind schedule, I can't be expected to look over every new person in the offices." Silence from the phone. "Fine. You know what, just send him up to me. It's not like I'm not getting enough visitors already. Make sure he identifies himself properly, please. I can't be trusted not to liquefy the next person who walks through my door unannounced." He glared very pointedly at the young man in the room.
"Very good, sir. I'll send the electrician up when they arrive, as well. Oh, and by the by, Lawless has yet to return your message. Thought you'd want an update." Angela hung up. Only a half-decade younger than he was, but she seemed to Grant the most efficient being to ever walk the Earth. Didn't mean she didn't infuriate him half the time.
He looked over at the kid. "Okay, you're here. Someone else is coming, so talk. Multiple someones, actually. If one of them gets here before you finish, tough."
It also helped that he had multiple industrial-grade sonic cannons installed around the room. Each was on a swivel axle, and as soon as the door opened (without the opener announcing their arrival and their business), Grant casually reached under his desk and flicked the dial up to four out of ten. The cannons sent the proper amount of soundwaves at the intruder, while Grant heard nothing at all.
One on the dial was excellent for listening to music in a surround sound fashion. Four was the equivalent of a space-bound projectile's launch sequence. In other words, it was dangerous to toy with Grant when he was having a bad day.
After a few relaxed seconds of aural agony, Grant turned the dial back to one. One of his multiple relaxing playlists was what came out of the cannons next. Unless the intruder was wearing inch-thick ear plugs--or they were deaf--there would be at least some discomfort in the room, and not from Grant.
He waited for a moment, until his words would be heard properly, "I'm sorry about that, kid. I have a very strict policy about seeing people. I'm a busy guy." A little camera buzzed in, circling Grant like he was some B-Movie villain. It was a Panasonic model. Grant didn't much care for Panasonic.
"Since you've interrupted my schedule without a care in the world, why don't you take a seat over there--" he pointed to a few chairs in the corner of the room. "--while I finish up what I was doing. Unless, that is, you want me to call security." Grant returned to his throne, after which, two things occurred, both of them phone calls.
"This is Grant Anders, President and CEO of Forward-Thinking Leader Collective. I'm quite busy, so make it quick."
"Boss?" Grant sighed. It was Anton, from the Mafia. "We caught someone snooping around here that you might want to talk to. Randall was gonna off her, but I thought you'd want final say."
Typical mob tactics, try to gain favor with the important people. "Thank you, Anton. I would like to speak with her. Please hold her there until I'm able to make it to her." In truth, it would probably be a long, long time before he could be bothered to go see what they were talking about.
"No problem, boss. You have a good day." Grant hung up.
"Sorry about th--" the phone cut him off. "Damn. This is Grant Anders, President and CEO of Forward-Thinking Leader Collective. I'm quite busy, so make it quick."
"Are you okay, Anders?" Ah, it was Angela. What a woman. No fear at all.
"Fine, Angela, just stressed. What is it?"
"You have a new chemist down in the offices. And," she continued, taking the word right out of Grant's mouth, "He is the one who got traded over from PartyBuzzDrugs Inc." She said the name as if it was the most serious title ever created. "The one who we have no idea about. Point is, Anders, I think you should go down and take a look at him."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Angela, I'm already behind schedule, I can't be expected to look over every new person in the offices." Silence from the phone. "Fine. You know what, just send him up to me. It's not like I'm not getting enough visitors already. Make sure he identifies himself properly, please. I can't be trusted not to liquefy the next person who walks through my door unannounced." He glared very pointedly at the young man in the room.
"Very good, sir. I'll send the electrician up when they arrive, as well. Oh, and by the by, Lawless has yet to return your message. Thought you'd want an update." Angela hung up. Only a half-decade younger than he was, but she seemed to Grant the most efficient being to ever walk the Earth. Didn't mean she didn't infuriate him half the time.
He looked over at the kid. "Okay, you're here. Someone else is coming, so talk. Multiple someones, actually. If one of them gets here before you finish, tough."
I'm always so late to the Titanpad party. Sucks.
Okay, warning for everyone: the family is dragging me away on a trip for the next three days, but I will fight tooth and nail to keep posting as long as you all keep giving me a reason to.
Stop the PoPo, everyone
Okay, warning for everyone: the family is dragging me away on a trip for the next three days, but I will fight tooth and nail to keep posting as long as you all keep giving me a reason to.
Stop the PoPo, everyone
I'm there now. I only just saw this.
Sorry for the delay. I've posted, and aside from Heilix, who I think can make an opening post now, and RC, who has a post planned, I believe, everyone else is at least marginally tied together.
If anyone doesn't like what I've done, just let me know and I'll look at it again.
If anyone doesn't like what I've done, just let me know and I'll look at it again.
"I've told you before, Smythe, the cords need to be replaced, 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 too 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."
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.))
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 too 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."
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.))
© 2007-2026