I coughed as my guns shouted at 'em again, erupting with each bark.

Screw me.

Things had gone straight to hell after the transformers blew. According to the prints, once they died, Gregor'd put a hole in the wall, and we'd be to the elevators. Easy as that. The prints were dipped in shit apparently, because waiting on the other side of the wall was nothing but more wall. And more wall. And more wall.

The lights had kicked on just in time to light us up all pretty for the corp security guards running down the stairs, guns in hand. Security opened fire, I opened fire. Things died. Not us. That was the main thing. The Wrecking Crew ran off, ducking into the vents. Gregor took his shots, getting his suit all blown to pieces, and started lobbing chunks of machinery at them. More things died, still not us.

Gregor and I heard a crash and down comes the steel wall right?

Gregor grabs hold of the end and flips it up, smashing it against the stairwell. He rams against it with his shoulder and you hear snapping and the Corp boys squealing like beaten pigs. He grumbled like a tornado eating a barn. Something about "You owe me a new suit," or something like that.

The imps were waiting on the other side, shouting for us. They had climbed over and set off charges to bring the thing down. But we still weren't to the elevators.

The room was big. And vacant. And barren. Except for us and crates and the big door on the other end.

That woulda been okay if the door hadn't opened. But it did.

Always does.

And out pours a swarm of more corporate goons, all with their pretty little badges and pretty little rifles. Me and the Twins have never been impressed by pretty folks, even if they're usually impressed with us. My guns started shouting at 'em and they started dying all over again. The imps ducked back into the vents. Thought they were running til I saw James drop out of a hole in the ceiling and land on a guard. He buried his knives into the guy before springboarding off to the next. Edward's jumping from hole to hole, blowing flames down, torching folks left and right. Things were going pretty decent. Bit of a cluster, but nothing we couldn't handle.

Then here comes this big 'un through the door, probably employee of the week or some crap like that, in a Sanitation Suit, tall as Gregor. I could see the corp boy grinning from his cockpit as started unloading with his chainguns, blasting his own people to get to us. The Twins are yelling, Gregor's throwing bodies.

Finally, Manfred and Whitfield drop some sticky glob of goo down on his head and Edward blows a flame at it. Boom Bam Crash. No more Sanitation Suit. Well, lots and lots of charred Sanitation Suit, but not in pieces big enough to hurt anymore.

There's maybe a half dozen security still alive. They turn tail and run. We follow 'em through the door and lo and behold, it's the elevator depot. There's this big column in the center surrounded by all these other smaller ones. The big one's supposed to be the emergency, the little 'uns are the regulars. So Gregor gets to wrenching one of the small doors open so we can get at the big column, when something hits me in the stomach. Twice.

And I bleed. All down the front of my pants like I'd wet myself.

So like I said, I started coughing, the Twins start barking. I returned the favor to the coward on the catwalk sniping at me, and sank against a wall. Then the holes in my gut start sewing themselves back together. The stain comes out of my shirt and the blood runs back up my pants and into the holes, right before they close up. Nod takin' care of me. Thank God it don't take as much outta him to fix us as it does to get hit, I'll tell you that.

"Gregor, get your ass movin'," I shouted

"Ass movin'! Ass movin'!" came the calls from the imps.

I shook my head and ran. "Shaddup ya little beasties!"

Gregor grunted and I heard a snap. He comes lumbering out of the shaft and I heard this twanging noise. Broken guitar string, snapped fishing line, fraying clothesline type twanging. And here comes this whooshing, all this air pushed down by that enormous emergency elevator. I'm plugging my ears, expecting a crash. There's no crash.

What the hell is going on?

I run into the shaft and look up. These tubes have shot out of the elevator and buried themselves into the doors where the other elevators belong. Like some big spider holding itself up rather than get washed down the drain.

Like I said, screw me.

Things were not well. Not well at all. Jefferson Blank was most annoyed. The elevator had taken more than 3 seconds to get to each floor and more than a 1 minute to board each time. Unacceptable. Wasteful. Not on schedule at all. Jefferson Blank watched the room. He watched Blue Pin-striped, Italian tie, Patent Leather Shoes. Names were irrelevant. He needed to be watched and removed.

Jefferson Blank disliked crowds. He was a face in the crowd. He "blended in."

Jefferson Blank still disliked crowds. They annoyed him. They didn't notice him.

Fine. Don't notice.

He won't notice you either.

The elevator rocked sideways and began to fall. Early. Too early. The competition was out of pace. Another schedule needing correction. The elevator plummeted, suits screamed. Jefferson Blank stood still. He looked at his watch. 9 seconds before they would reach ground floor. Blue Pin-striped, Italian tie, Patent Leather Shoes grabbed him and screamed. Spit touched his cheek. 6 seconds.

Jefferson Blank wiped off the spit and slapped Blue Pin-striped, Italian tie, Patent Leather Shoes. 3 seconds.

Jefferson Blank whistled idly to himself. 1 second.

The elevator jerked to a stop as the emergency brakes caught the ground floor and held. Jefferson Blank pushed the "door open" button and pulled Blue Pin-striped, Italian tie, Patent Leather Shoes through.

"Time to go sir."

A wolf and a boy stood in the doorway of Elevator #1. The boy was wiping blood from his lip and had two bullets in his hand. "Good afternoon sirs. Mr. Eddington, I presume? We've been looking for you. A friend of yours sends his regards."

Jefferson Blank was most annoyed. Most annoyed indeed. He snapped Blue Pin-striped, Italian tie, Patent Leather Shoes' neck and darted back into the crowd of suits and guns for suits.

"This doesn't bode well," said Mr. Jonathan. "Mission's a wipe?"

"Forget that. Find him. Without him, the fee's ours. I want his head Mr. Jonathan," I replied.

"Is that all?"

The bodyguards were pulling their 11mm pistols.