Maximus Evander MacGregor
*Cue James Bond intro music*
"Any CCTV cameras on the left?"
"None, sir."
"On the right?"
"Two guards, one camera way up high."
"Alright, left it is." The leader slinked into the shadows like a ninja, with his team trailing behind like a bunch of ducklings waddling after their very serious, ninja-like mom.
Suddenly, the leader raised his hand. "Stop!" Everyone froze, instantly plastering themselves to the wall, looking more like bad movie extras trying to blend into the scenery.
A shadowy figure approached.
"Prepare for a surprise attack," the leader whispered. "Numbers one through five, guns ready. Six through ten, cover our butts!" The first five fumbled to grab their colorful, water guns—because apparently, subtlety was overrated—while the rest kept awkwardly glancing back to make sure no one was creeping up on them from behind.
They all had adorable heart stickers on their hands, each with a number in the middle, like they were part of some quirky secret agent daycare. This system made the leader's instructions way easier to follow—because who doesn't pay attention when there's a cute sticker involved?
"Clear," the leader whispered, and they moved forward, slightly hunched over like a group of spies who watched too many action movies. Their colorful guns pointed ahead as they crept forward. The first five stayed on the leader's heels, while the other five trailed behind, covering the rear but also trying not to trip over each other.
Suddenly, the commander shouted, "BOMB! SCATTER QUICKLY!" As a grenade fruit flew toward them, the group burst into chaos. The commander sprinted away like a man late for his own wedding, while the team scattered in every direction. Two followed the commander without question, like loyal sidekicks. Three darted west, arms flailing. The rest? They went north, probably just hoping they'd run into a better hiding spot.
"Let's keep moving. We can't let them win," Anton, the leader, growled, his frustration bubbling over like a pot about to boil.
"Yes, sir," the other two replied in unison, though their enthusiasm was a bit shaky.
The trio pressed on, navigating through the large, echoey halls of the abandoned building, which felt more like a haunted house than a hideout. After what felt like forever (or maybe just five flights of stairs), they reached the fifth floor. Two more to go before they faced the boss, the final showdown.
Anton, ever the professional, paused to reload his weapon with all the flair of an action hero, while his two comrades stood guard. Well, mostly. One nervously tapped his foot, while the other tried not to look like he was thinking about dinner.
They quickly cleared the fifth and sixth floors with a blur of punches, head-bashing, and gunfire. Sure, they took a few hits too—one had a black eye, another was limping, and Anton… well, Anton was just annoyed. The endless fighting had left them battered and exhausted, and yet, the boss was still nowhere to be found. He was either hiding on the seventh floor or had already made a break for it.
"Stairs again?" one of them groaned.
"No elevator," Anton muttered, already heading up the steps.
Panting and cursing their luck, they finally reached the seventh floor. But as soon as they stepped into the hallway, they were greeted by the boss's minions. And these guys were ready. They were armed to the teeth: guns, knives, baseball bats, and… bags of sand? Seriously?
"Well, this should be fun," Anton said dryly, as they prepared for yet another brawl.
*Gunshots rang out*
*Sand flew through the air, blinding them for a second*
*Baseball bats swung like they were in the world's strangest sports match.*
The fight was chaotic and intense, with fists and weapons flying in every direction.
"Where's your boss?!" Anton barked, putting one of the minions in a headlock so tight, the poor guy's face turned red.
Gasping, the minion pointed shakily towards a large, golden throne—turned backward, of course, because why not add a little drama? They couldn't see who was sitting there.
Anton released him and dashed toward the throne, but just as he was about to reach it, more minions jumped in his way, blocking his path like a human wall of bad fashion choices and questionable life decisions.
"AYE! LET ME THROUGH. I'M GETTING ANGRY!" Anton shouted, throwing punches and dodging the chaos around him like a frustrated action hero.
"Sorry, we're just doing this for the game," one of the minions called out apologetically, as if that would somehow make things better.
Anton was running out of steam, but the minions just kept coming, their attacks relentless. His frustration reached its peak when a booming voice echoed across the floor, freezing everyone in place.
"BEHOLD!" The voice thundered. "THE MIGHTY BOSS OF BOSSES IS HERE TO SAVE HIS PEOPLE! HA HA HA HA!"
The boss made his grand entrance, gazing dramatically at the ceiling and laughing like a low-budget villain. The golden throne spun around, thanks to some over-the-top advanced technology, revealing him in all his glory. He struck a superhero pose, which was confusing since he was supposed to be the bad guy.
"YOU," he bellowed, pointing dramatically at Anton. "LAWLESS KNIGHT—"
"I'm a cop, sir," Anton interrupted, sounding more tired than anything.
"THE SCRIPT HAS CHANGED!" the boss snapped, clearly not pleased. "YOU, LAWLESS KNIGHT, DARE TO DEFY THE KING OF THIS BUILDING! YOU ARE NOT VERY DEMURE! THE BLOOD, IT IS EVERYWHERE, AND IT'S NOT CUTESY ANYMORE!"
Anton blinked, unsure what to say to that.
"ANYONE WHO CHALLENGES THIS MIGHTY KING IS COMMITTING SUICIDE!" the boss roared, raising his arms in the air like a pastor preaching to his children.
Then, with a grand flourish, he commanded, "MINIONS! BIND AND TAKE THESE THREE COMMONERS TO THE DUNGEON AT ONCE! I HATE UNPROFESSIONALISM THE MOST!"
Ring ring ring
Ay, ay, ay, ay Im your little butterfly~ *Incoming call*
"Sorry, one moment, please," the boss said, holding up a finger before answering on loudspeaker.
"MAXIMUS."
"EVANDER."
"MACGREGOR!!"
The booming voice on the other end was furious. "I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU'RE DOING RIGHT NOW, BUT STOP YOUR STUPID CHILDISH GAME AND GET TO THE COMPANY! I NEED TO TALK TO YOU. NOW."
Call ends.
Max blinked, then grinned mischievously. "Uh oh. Looks like Dad's angry again," he said, his eyes twinkling as he glanced down at the five hundred or so employees below him—his father's workers. They were caught in the middle of a chaotic brawl, still fully immersed in the game, as the three "prisoners" stubbornly refused to surrender.
With three loud claps, Max signaled the end of the game. Instantly, the chaos stopped. Employees dropped their weapons and began to gather in a crowd. Those who had been playing dead on the floor suddenly came to life, brushing off fake blood and holstering their yellow, green, and water-filled toy guns. Even the "dead" ones from the lower floors rushed to join, bewildered by the sudden end.
"GOOD WORK EVERYONE!" Max shouted. "THE PLAY WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SO THRILLING WITHOUT YOUR AMAZING PERFORMANCE. YOU ALL MADE THIS GAME COME TO LIFE! THANK YOU FOR PLAYING WITH ME!"
A wave of cheers erupted from the crowd below. "No problem! As long as it's you, young master!" they called back, some even laughing. After all, they were used to Max's whims, no matter how bizarre. If it wasn't a life-sized chess game one week, it was a full-on spy drama the next.
Max smiled. "For now, I need to leave and end the game—unfortunately, " he added with exaggerated disappointment. "Don't worry, I'll have Mr. Cruz send out the money and the goods later!" He gave a dramatic wave as he walked off, leaving them to clean up the aftermath. But no one minded—the promised rewards were too good to refuse: three months' salary and two boxes of groceries per person. It was practically a vacation bonus.
"THAT WAS FUN!" Max shouted with glee as he hopped into his sleek car, sinking into the back seat like a king lounging on his throne.
"It was, young master," his butler, Anton, agreed with a fond smile, glad that the master was in such a good mood today.
"Good game."