MED Q LABS – THE BUSINESS EPICENTER – HOURS LATER
Dirk Steele, under the neon halo of an e-cigarette, presides over the grand lobby of Med Q Labs, a behemoth of pharmaceutical capitalism. His smoking garners the receptionist's scorn, yet she remains speechless in her distaste. The arrival of a holographic message provides her a welcome reprieve.
"Mr. Steele?" she addresses him.
His attention drifts to her, a silent acknowledgement.
"Chairman Rohms will see you now," she informs.
"At last."
THE POWERHOUSE – CHAIRMAN ROHMS' OFFICE – MOMENTS LATER
The receptionist leads Dirk into the nerve center of the corporate titan, her worry-filled eyes seeking solace in the chairman's gaze. The aging, balding man—Rohms—dismisses her with a casual wave, leaving Dirk alone in the den of the corporate shark.
"A regular Casanova, aren't you, Mr. Steele?" Rohms teases.
"I'm not here for small talk, Rohms," Dirk retorts, his impatience simmering. "And I don't enjoy waiting."
"Very well, Mr. Steele. I've got your payment," Rohms offers a small metallic device. Dirk accepts it, laying it atop his wristwatch where a holographic message details a transfer of ten thousand in cryptic currency.
Once the transfer completes, he tosses the device back. "This will be the last time I engage in such dealings."
"I hadn't pegged you for a bleeding heart," Rohms observes.
"The Nylder wasn't blameless," Dirk admits, "but alien smuggling isn't my preferred line of work."
"Just remember, Mr. Steele," Rohms urges, "this must remain confidential."
"I might not like you, Rohms," Dirk confesses, "but my word is my bond. This stays quiet."
With Dirk's exit, Rohms touches a concealed earpiece. "Start the trace."
"Affirmative," a voice on the other end confirms.
FLY-BY-BAR – DIAMOND CITY'S URBAN CORE – AN HOUR LATER
In the solitude of his vehicle, Dirk navigates a holographic interface, perusing NetTECH's bounty hunter job postings, a network nerve center of 2099's digital landscape.
Each page showcases a rogue's gallery of alien and human targets, accompanied by their charges and bounties, none exceeding two thousand.
"Penny pinchers," Dirk murmurs, biting into his burger with dissatisfaction.
SKID ROW – DIAMOND CITY – MINUTES LATER
Dirk's hover car touches down on an antiquated, crumbling postal depot encircled by barbed wire fences. As his vehicle alights, a soft beep rouses Steeler.
"Confirmation," Steeler states.
"Dirk Steele," Dirk verifies.
Following another beep, the ground beneath Dirk's vehicle creaks, sinking into the depot.
DIRK'S SECRET SANCTUARY
Emerging from his vehicle, Dirk steps into an engulfing void.
"Steeler, lights," Dirk commands.
Lines of luminescence flicker to life, revealing the colossal labyrinth of his secret base.
"Lounge," he instructs.
Machinery groans as a room surfaces before him, emerging like a submarine breaking the surface. He steps into what appears to be a luxurious master bedroom.
"Reconfigure the kitchen and office area into B layout," Dirk directs.
"As you desire, sir," Steeler complies.
As he reclines on his bed, Dirk requests, "Steeler, select a film for me, please."
"Analyzing mood now," Steeler replies, scanning Dirk with an array of spectral grids. Moments later, an old western flick begins playing on a retractable screen.
"Thank you, Steeler," Dirk murmurs, "exactly what the doctor ordered."
Only minutes into his relaxation, his holophone rings. Dirk approaches cautiously, gun in hand. Answering with measured pace, he scrutinizes the incoming image.
"Who are you?" Dirk asks, suspicion lacing his words.
"Hello, Mr. Steele. A pleasure to finally meet you, even under less-than-ideal circumstances," the image responds.
"Cut to the chase. You got a job for me or not?" Dirk growls.
"As a matter of fact, I do," the image concedes. The conversation unfolds, revealing a tale of danger, death, and a monster called Tyrant Joe.
With negotiations complete and a contract worth four million in his pocket, Dirk embarks on his next job, unsure if the risk justifies the reward.