The sounds of people fighting, bodies being cut into, the weak and frightened running for shelter, could’ve sworn there was the distinct sound of someone getting a limb cut off, all masked by the sound of the rain. Yeah, just another day in the Backstreets of W Corp. The rain was supposed to have let up an hour ago, if the radio back at the office was to be believed, but now the radio in the local drug store was saying otherwise. After a short bit of shopping, Emilio walked out of the store, carrying 2 bags of groceries.

  He was a man of average height, scraggly black hair, a slight bit of facial hair because finding a good barber out in this spot of town was either really expensive or they were secretly planning on turning you into meatpies; his face would be just as average, if not for the numerous scars dotting his features. “Oy vey…” He looked up at the sky, speaking with a tired, sardonic tone. “You really don’t want to die down any time soon, huh, rain clouds?” He didn’t mind the rain, but didn’t much like being rained on. Now was the game plan on how to get to his next destination; the person he was meant to deliver to. He counted the options on his fingers. “The contract states that if I take too long, the payment will be reduced. If I go east, that’ll take up too much time and I’ll definitely be late.” He looked west to watch the little turf war going on just down the street. Just a few Backstreets thugs, better known as Rats. From their non-uniform outfits he was certain that they weren’t linked with any local Syndicate; the fight likely started as an ordinary argument that turned violent, that or they were joining a local Syndicate and that this was some brutal form of initiation. Emilio didn’t know and didn’t really care. Stories like this were as common as garbage in the Backstreets. “Then again, it’s just like 5 or 6 guys, 2 of which are wounded, I think I can take ‘em if they aggro.” He smiled to himself as he walked west, headed for the client’s apartment, his boots splashing in the large puddles. He scratched his chin, still in thought, not even focused on the acts of violence going on around him. “Now that I think about it… If it is a Syndicate initiation… That’ll mean more dangerous people are gonna be muscling in on this area. There goes the neighborhood I guess. More danger means more work, doesn’t it? That’ll keep the lights on-”

  His reflexes kicked in and quickly jumped back, as a knife flew past his vision and into the wooden fence next to him. The blade stuck there, wobbling a bit, a trickle of rain running off of it. Emilio looked over to the group of Rats, his eyes on the scrawny one wearing a bandanna: From his pose, he was the owner of the knife. His three friends also looked in Emilio’s direction, standing over the fresh corpses of the two wounded men from earlier, plus two extra; the fight was all wrapped up, now they had their sights set on someone else. A combat high tends to make you greedy for more like that. “Sorry,” the bandanna’d man laughed, “Didn’t mean to throw that at you. Was aiming at the fence behind your head, honestly.”

  “Well, hello to you too,” Emilio nonchalantly said, as he removed the knife from the fence. On closer inspection, the knife wasn’t even stabbing into the wood of the fence, but rather landed between the boards. It was dull as shit, there was no way it would’ve even left a permanent wound if it hit. Here he thought he was so cool for dodging on reflex like that. “Sorry, I’m on a bit of a deadline here. Do you guys want to walk away from this, because I do.” The tone he used was like one of a minimum wage worker being heckled by some rowdy children. He moved his free hand, the one not holding the bags of groceries, to a large cleaver at his hip. The weapon folded up when not in use, the blade and the handle parallel.

  “Hey,” a burly rat called to him, “What’s that say on the back of your jacket? Runaway? Is that the name of your Office.” His eyes moved to the grocery bags in Emilio’s hand, then to the weapon, then finally back up to making eye contact. “You’re a Fixer, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.” Emilio nodded and put on a smile. As if to play along with the Rats taunts; he could easily take them, what was the point of acting all tough? “Just a run of the mill Grade 9 at Runaway Office.”

  “What was that about a deadline?” A female member of the Rats said, stepping forward, “Is that what they’re having you do? Deliver groceries for someone?”

  “Right again,” Emilio nodded, as if being put to such menial tastes was something to be proud of. “How’d you guess?”

  “Just a hunch,” The burly man said, “How’s it feel to join an Office, only to be turned into a glorified pizza delivery man?”

  “A Fixer has got to make money somehow, rent is due in a week and I’m taking any job that I can get.” Emilio said. Either he had a great deal of patience or that cleaver was just for show. “Besides, I’m not just a Fixer of the Office, I’m the Operator.”

  The Rats all fell silent, looking at themselves. You could always gain a good bit of infamy by taking out an Office Operator, Grade 9 Fixer or no. But that only brought up further questions; what was a Grade 9 Fixer doing as an Office Operator? What was he doing with such pointless chores instead of managing his Office and sending Fixers out? They had heard of one man Offices, so maybe this was the case. Their train of thought was interrupted once Emilio spoke up once more.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “So, let me ask what I asked earlier. Want to walk away from this, or do you want to see what this Fixer has got?” The groceries in the bag were probably soaked at this point… Hopefully not. Nothing wrong with a little bit of wet bread.

  The knife thrower who started all this stepped forward, but his stronger friend put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Come on, Angi, let’s get out of here… We also have a deadline to meet and don’t have time to fight this idiot.” He flicked his head to down the street, “Plus, I’m sore from the fight, not in the mood to fight another guy.” Sore from the fight, a common excuse. At least they knew not to pick fights they couldn’t win.

  The scrawny Rat, Angi apparently, groaned. Without any more words, the group ran off, of course giving Emilio one look back.

  This is usually how it went with Rats, 90 percent of the time; not that he was actually keeping track of statistics. Advantageous and cowardly. Never picking a fight unless there was a significant difference in strength between them and their opponent; although there was something to be admired by those who have nothing to lose. Emilio sighed. Shame, he was hoping they’d put their money where their mouth was, but he didn’t want to waste any more time and the grocery bags. After a short walk, no further interruptions other than saying hi to the occasional passer by, he finally made it to the apartment complex. “Let’s see… First floor, room…” He read off the notes he took before leaving, before quickly finding the room. “Ah, here it is.” Hold on, Heidi told him she came here before in order for the client to sign the contract. Room 103, the one where the door number is coming off slightly. Slight smell of mildew, more so than the rest of the apartment.

  The man answered the door after just three knocks. “Finally!” It was a pale skinned man, who clearly hadn’t left the building in weeks. It was fair to be afraid to leave the house, especially when you lived in the Backstreets and didn’t have the protection of an Association, Office, or Syndicate, but this level of cowardice was kind of ridiculous. “You’re 15 minutes late!”

  “I’m not the Deyvat Association.” Emilio casually. “But, the contract stated that there is a deadline of 30 minutes before you get a discount. The contract you sighed with Miss Heidi.” It felt weird using such professional language, especially when talking about Heidi. He handed the groceries off to the man. The plastic bags were soaked, but the contents inside were relatively dry; it was likely to impact the expiry date of the cereal though. “Thank you for hiring Runaway Office and we hope you pick us in the future.”

  The man groaned, pausing before speaking up as Emilio began to leave. “Thank you. Probably won’t, but thank you.” It wasn’t like he picked the Office by choice. It was an open contract that he put out, where any Office could’ve taken it.

  “No problem, try to leave the house now and again.” Emilio nodded with a friendly smile and a finger gun. Soon he was back out on the street, where the rain had finally died down, the sidewalks now smelled of petrichor. A nice smell, if not for the corpses that were soon to be devoured by Sweepers once night arrived. Speaking of which, he made it back to the Office, which was a few blocks from the drug store where this all started. He heard that the Zwei were going to start cracking down on this place, but he hasn’t seen a single zweilander or blue coat. Guess he had his work cut out for him, huh? If the Zwei wasn’t going to do it, maybe he’d do it. It was all upwards from here.

  His Office, a small little place with their logo on the front, wasn’t much but it got the job done; a place where contracts were made and discussions went down, no need for extra bits. It was located right next to a BBQ restaurant so a nice smell frequently leaked in during peak hours; he hoped that it wasn’t human flesh they were serving, knowing the infamy that the Backstreets of W Corp have. The other place it sat next to was the apartment complex he and his friend lived at; nice to have your work place right next door to your home. Without any further interruptions, he walked inside.

  “Phew…” He stretched, as he closed the door behind him, being greeted by the quiet of his Office. Maybe he would hit the public bath tomorrow… Maybe go to a nice restaurant. He’d have to count up his finances. The rent of the Office, the rent of his apartment, the money he saved up from his old job and the loan that a friend of a friend gave him; he wasn’t in danger of ending up on the street or having to sell his organs, but that money was bound to dry up at this rate. Well, he was going to save next months problems for the him of next month.

  The Office consisted of a small waiting room that was sparsely used, which lead into a room with an office desk to the right, a few folding chairs, a few empty supply cabinets, and a couch and blanket where he slept, plus a steamer trunk where he kept his clothes. Again, nothing special, again, you have to start somewhere. Removing his wet clothes, he tossed them aside and put on some dry ones, placing his weapon beside the couch, he sat down; he put a visit to the laundromat on the list of things to do tomorrow. Heidi, the other half of the two person Office, would be here soon; she was out running errands of her own. Laying down, he looked up at the ceiling, looking at the one yellowing ceiling tile that was either mold or someone on the floor above him died; either way, he made a mental note to call a cleaner… Yeah, between that and the laundromat, he wouldn’t be able to make that bathhouse plan that he made earlier.

  You have to start somewhere, he told himself again and again; he remembered the principals that Runaway Office was started on. Here at rock bottom, where you can go no further down except through death. He had one word for the place he was in.

  Perfect.