Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt

It was two days later when Fleer strode back into the rec room with a huge grin on his face. Little Timmy was stretched out on the sofa watching the holovid. D'khara was hunched over a datapad with a worried frown, reading a technical manual. Roger was splayed out on the rug, staring raptly at the patterns in the worn floor covering. Mrs. Meade was peering down through her reading spectacles as she worked on some knitting.

"Good news, everyone!" Fleer chirped, playfully slapping Little Timmy's foot off the arm of the sofa. "We've got a contract!"

D'khara sat up straight. Mrs. Meade blinked slowly and laid her knitting aside. Roger rolled over from his spot on the floor.

Fleer waved a datapad around.

"I got a signature of intent this morning! We've got a heist on the books!"

"A heist?" D'khara asked.

"More or less," he said, looking through the text on his datapad. "We've been asked to acquire some files from the estate of one Sir Oscar Byrd. It's a mansion out in Artois, the older, moneyed part of the Eastern Residential district. Lovely place, from what I've seen. We'll just nip in and grab the files. Easy peasey!"

"Feeble bunks!" Roger contributed.

"What are these files?" D'khara asked. "What kind of system do they have?"

"That's the best part!" Fleer crowed. "They're paper files! We literally just have to pick them up and walk away with them!"

"Paper?" Little Timmy looked confused.

"Yeah, I'm not sure about the idea of paper," D'khara offered, his brow twisting in disapproval.

"No systems to hack, no countermeasures to work past. Guys, this is going to be so easy. We can totally do this!"

Mrs. Meade picked her knitting back up.

"Has Mr. Oliver approved the contract?" Mrs. Meade asked.

"Approved, and he's working on our infiltration plan right now!"

"Well, if he approves, then I approve. He's a level-headed young man." Her needles began clicking again. "What are the terms of the contract, Mr. Fleer?" she asked.

"Well, we get 10% up-front, and the rest once we hand the files to the client. Standard division among all participants. 60,000 credits total."

"Oh, won't that be nice."

Fleer nodded.

"Little Timmy, do you still have that stick welder?" he asked.

"Uh. I guess. Somewhere."

"Great, we'll need to make some minor modifications to the Battle Wagon."

Mrs. Meade's needles stopped entirely and her expression drew down.

"Just what kind of modifications were you thinking of making to my Battle Wagon, Mr. Fleer?" she asked, a tinge of ice in her voice.

"Minor," he emphasized. "Just a couple small mortar tubes firing saboted grapnels. We'll need something to get us through the gates, and Oliver thought we might be able to winch them down."

"Well," she harrumphed. "As long as it doesn't cause any damage to the armor, I suppose that's acceptable."

"And a couple small explosive charges to fire the things of course. And maybe something in the grapnels to drive them into the stone on impact. Little Timmy, do you think you can mix us up a compound for all that?"

"I've got what you need, boss-man."

"Excellent!" Fleer's voice dropped into the fast, low monotone people use when spinning through legalese. "Per Mercenary's Guild guidelines, all contracts are strictly voluntary for every employee and refusal of a job does not affect any employee's consideration for any future jobs." He continued in a more normal tone, "So, can I count on everyone's participation in this operation?"

A chorus of lukewarm agreement circled the room.

Fleer beamed. A decent contract, and now maybe some steady work.

Things were finally looking up for the Riotfish.

Humming, Fleer scanned the red-lined contract he'd just received back from Datatura, approved all the changes, and signed it with his private key. Done. A nice, fat contract sealed, easy money in the bank.

Fleer pulled up his messages and spun through them to find the AME promo again, a little thrill going through him. This was it. With the money from the Datatura contract, they'd easily have enough money for him to go. He grinned hugely. Things were falling into place.

At the conference, he'd be able to establish himself-- establish the Riotfish-- as real mercenaries. He could use the upcoming Datatura contract as a testimonial and marketing point, prove that Riotfish, Inc. was a legitimate company with capable, competent mercenaries. Maybe even, dare he hoped, sweep up a better corporate sponsor than Vermiforme.

Of course, if Datatura liked their work, there was no reason they couldn't put in to sponsor the Riotfish too. Fleer briefly fantasized about having multiple corporations sparring for the opportunity to sponsor him.

Yes. This conference was the key. No more stretching the truth and hoping people didn't pry too much during sales calls. The Riotfish would have earned their bona fides.

He drank in the ad again, but frowned suddenly as he looked at the dates of the conference. The conference overlapped with the dates Datatura had blocked off for the delivery of the papers.

Fleer thought for a moment. That wasn't necessarily a dealbreaker-- Mrs. Meade could courier the papers, with Oliver for protection. As lead strategist, Oliver could sign off on the work as well.

But with the time required for planning and prepping, the week of the conference was going to be about the only week they'd be able to do the job.

He could either do the Datatura contract, or go to the conference. Glumly, he closed the promo.

Of course... he didn't really need to be on hand for the job, did he? Oliver's plans were pretty solid, and this one wasn't complicated: the crew would bust in and make a lot of noise and mess while Fleer snuck into the file room and grabbed the files. But really, anybody who could read could handle Fleer's part.

It was true that the Riotfish benefited from guidance on occasion, but this job was straightforward enough that they didn't need him there. Not as such.

But he needed the money from the Datatura contract to be able to afford to go to the conference.

Or did he?

If he knew the money was coming in short order, he could bridge the finances a little.

He popped open the financials, edging his eyes around some of the uglier parts. Yes, the travel budget still had a little, almost enough for the flight, the rest of which he could probably cover from petty cash. The conference fees, as always, were outrageous, but that fell firmly into the training budget. The hotel-- well, he was going to have to get creative there. Some from the training budget, sure, but now travel was tapped. He could push off their suppliers a little more, though. Just a couple weeks, until the Datatura job paid out.

Yes. This was it. He could do this! This would be the year that Riotfish, Inc. became a real business!

Now to let Oliver know.

The war room was dimly lit, except for the glaring light of the projector shining down onto the table. Maps, timetables and checklists glowed on the surface in neatly stacked rows. Fleer reached a finger out to slide them around, trying to make sense of Oliver's files without disorganizing them.

He frowned at the shadow his hand cast on the table as it blocked the light from the overhead projector. One of these days, he'd be able to afford a real display table, the kind that projected the image up from the surface, making it easier to see the documents as you were shuffling them around.

He straightened and wandered out of the war room looking for Oliver. It was time to let him know he was going to be a man short for this mission.

Fleer walked into the kitchen. On the stove was a giant pot containing a thick, slowly bubbling semi-gelatinous mass. In front of the stove towered an orc, thickly muscled and over nine feet tall, with rock-brown skin and long, ape-proportioned arms. He had a low, heavy brow and a giant, round, jutting jaw. A single rough tusk rose from the right side of his jaw. His broad, flat feet were bare.

"Ho, Oliver. What is it today? Lunch, or an experiment?"

Oliver wore a toque, and as he turned toward Fleer, he revealed that he was also wearing a frilly apron bearing the legend "Do Not Mess With The Cook's Buns". The massive orc held a ladle delicately pinched between a thumb and forefinger. He stared down at Fleer from his towering height.

Oliver nodded slightly.

"Good afternoon, David. This is for our lunch." The orc peered into the pot dubiously. "It's... chicken, I think."

"You think? Well, what did you put in it?"

"Meat? I'm not terribly sure what kind. The labels are hard to read without my glasses."

Fleer glanced into the pot.

"Right, well, good job. Good initiative."

"I'm only making lunch because Little Timmy and I played rock, paper, scissors to determine whose turn it was to cook. You know, David, you might inform him that instead of complaining about my cooking, he might volunteer to be chef more often."

"Right. I'll take that as an action item. Oliver, I wanted to discuss the mission plan with you."

"Oh? Which plan? Are they sufficient? Is it the supply lists? I'm sorry, I haven't had a chance to format them for--"

"No no, it's fine. I'm sure it's fine. I just need to make a small adjustment."

"Oh?"

"I won't be there. I have to go out of town that week for a conference."

"Oh." Oliver stood in silence for a moment. "Is that wise? That is to say, we're accustomed to having you on hand in the event of exigencies."

"Oh hey, don't worry about that. I'll be 100% available! I'll have my headset plugged right into my ear the whole time, so you can just give me a shout if you need anything at all!"

Oliver considered this.

"To be frank, this makes me uneasy. This is a new kind of operation for us. I've never written up a plan like this."

"Well, and the first time you made a plan for us, you'd never done it before either! And if I recall, your first plan saved my life, am I right?"

Oliver gave an awkward grin and shrugged uncomfortably.

"Oliver, you're our lead strategist and a super-smart guy. I trust your plan. It's a fine plan! Just shuffle the people around a little, and it'll work out!"

"I see. Um. I will, I will make the changes then. I'd like to run them by you, of course, to take advantage of your experience in these matters."

"Sure, sure!" Fleer said as he wandered out of the kitchen. "Just ping me when you've got it ready to go!"

A worried expression settled onto Oliver's face like an old friend as he watched Fleer depart.

"Yes!" Fleer did a little fist pump.

He'd scored a cheaper room by buying a reservation off of someone who wasn't able to attend due to sudden contract obligations.

He was lucky to find a room at all, as late as he was getting everything booked. He'd gotten the flight already. A red-eye, because that's all that was left. Now he just needed to register for the conference itself.

With the little extra money he'd saved on the room, he could treat himself to a decent lunch somewhere. If he rustled up some business contacts he could treat them, too, while he did some wheeling and dealing.

It was going to be a great conference.

His desktop blurped to let him know that new messages had arrived.

Confirmation for the flight? Check.

Confirmation for the hotel? Check.

Another message from Oliver, requesting a review of the plan? He'd have time for that before he left.

Some spam from a credit agency he didn't recognize. "Crediture"? A tiny pang of worry bubbled up, but that was something he'd deal with after the conference. The Riotfish had been in debt for as long as he'd owned them; their creditors were used to waiting.

That was it then. A few more forms, and the registration was complete.

He was going to AME!