Menthol stood ready against the trio of robots that disembarked the elevator. He held the axe to immediately swing at his command.

The robot in the middle, the robot that appeared to be in charge, was some sort of chrome bipedal crocodile with glowing green eyes and a blue fez atop its head. A pair of shoulder-mounted micromissile launchers trained on Menthol's body.

The pair of robots at its side was of a different model. They were hunched humanoids with grey oculars and slightly orange hull. Their arms were practically rods attached to a broad trapezoid torso. Their lithe legs were bent at their knees to balance their heavy upper bodies.

The crocodilian robot stepped forward. "Greetings, sir Mint. I am Dalton. This is my escorts, Flop and Volt."

"How did you know I would be here?" Menthol asked.

"We did not foresee your presence in this building." Dalton then gestured to a large gaping hole cut into the glass window through which snow and cold air had been drifting in. "We saw you rummaging through the lower floors."

"What do you want?" Menthol growled, baring his teeth.

"Negotiations, sir Mint," Dalton answered. He skirted at the edge of Menthol's attack range and settled himself onto a chair. "More specifically, about the debt you have been accumulating on the post-paid biyearly technology subscription."

Menthol made a face. He clearly did not remember signing up for the subscription Dalton just mentioned. "I did not sign up for this. In fact, I did not even know why I was even getting Factorylandian technology."

"I am sorry. You did not, but somebody did for you," Dalton explained, taking out a large file folder of documents.

That earned an angry shout from Menthol. "What?! I'm not paying you filthy money for a service I did not even sign up for."

"As the beneficiary of the service, you are contractually obligated to pay for the accrued fees."

"Why didn't you solicit the the one who signed me up your service?"

"We did for the first delivery, but terms and conditions had been changed since then. When the systems were upgraded, the payor was defaulted to your name and money was no longer being taken from the account of your benefactor."

"I wasn't informed of this change."

Dalton stared at Menthol's face for a moment. Shock roiled in his ocular light. "We did." He then slid a tablet computer toward Menthol. On the tablet computer's screen was a notice.

Menthol gazed warily at the tablet on the table. He stepped closer until he could read the words on the paper. He kept a close eye on the robots.

The notice was what it looks like: a notice informing him of a change that occurred about eight years ago. It was informative and crystal clear that he had become the payor of the service.

"I terminate my subscription," he declared.

"We can arrange that, but existing debt still remains and would need to be fully paid." Dalton then produced a handful of papers.

"How much do I owe?" Menthol gritted he teeth. He hoped his debt would be within his payable range in five years.

"Four million."

Menthol's eyes widened. That was a lot of money. "Any time constraints?"

"Post-paid fees may continue to accrue until termination of service; however, service may only be terminated when all indebted fees has been fully paid," Dalton answered. "Service will continue and extra expenses will be acccrued."

An icy storm roiled inside Menthol's head. It nagged him with the problem at hand. He had two years to pay for the unpaid subscription fees before an extra million would be added to his account. His country's industry and economy was ruined and unlikely to be revived in such short notice and begin making profit. He and his people was unlikely to get high paying jobs in the neighboring countries; Hillland was rural, Mountainland was a communistic state, and they were too unskilled for Factoryland.

Dalton smiled as Menthol was in deep thought. "You debt is large, sir Mint, but it can be much smaller," Dalton began. Menthol looked up, his attention caught. "We-- no, I can give you a large discount. In exchange of a favor of course."

Menthol's attention were still trained on Dalton. Dalton's green oculars glowed a little brighter before he continued. "You could pay as little as 10% of your original debt or a mere four hundred thousand. Are you interested?"

Menthol thought for a minute or two. Four hundred thousand was a much more manageable amount than four million, but it still sounded like a devil's deal. He still kept the deal on the board and answered, "I am interested, but what does this entail?"

Dalton's smile grew slightly wider. "That is good, sir Mint. You see, as director of domestic production, I am privy to the inner going-ons of my country. Ever since our head of state and government, Volta, had fallen to crippling depression, Factoryland had fallen to enormous debt, but that is not something we like to advertise to our citizens."

Dalton retrieved the tablet and began swiping through data sheets. "We mostly owe ours to Mountainland and Prometheus, and we do not like being in debt with either of them."

"What do you want and need of me?" Menthol asked.

Dalton turned his gaze to Menthol, and the green light from his eyes felt like needling into Menthol's skin. He answered, "Prometheus has ordered Volta to retrieve Hero's Prophecy. I wish for you to retrieve sir Prophecy for us."

Menthol's fur bristled and stood on ends. He gulped and then said the following words without hitch, "No. I'm not going to."

"We will offer domesti--" Dalton began but was interrupted quickly.

"My answer is still no."

"We--"

"No." Menthol steeled his nerves. He gripped tightly the axe in his hands. Flop and Volt turned their oculars towards him, and they swayed rather threateningly.

"We are not asking you to kill him," Dalton said. A sigh almost escaped his speakers. "All we want you to do is bring him to Castleton where he can fight Prometheus."

"What does this accomplish?" Menthol growled.

"If things go right, the permanent removal of the Devourer from the Imaginarium in as least time as possible," Dalton answered.

Menthol suddenly found himself a bit slack-jawed at the answer. "The Devourer is not real."

"The Devourer is very much real. Although I nor Volta was active during the rampage of the Devourer, Volta had seen the wasteland that was the Imaginarium in the immediate aftermath of the calamity. The Dragonlords' Manifesto even stated Volta and his siblings' purposes as engines of quick recovery from calamity and tragedy such as the Devourer's."

"So what? Is the Devourer in his basement and he needs Hero to kill it for him?"

Dalton paused for a second or two. "Presumably."

"Presumably?"

"We do not want to more than necessary debt from Prometheus." Dalton could feel chilly fear flowing through his circuits as he imagined the consequences.

"Right."

"3,600,000 less on your debt with or without domestic aid from Factoryland in exchange of taking sir Prophecy to Castleton: are you taking it? Or would you rather have 4,000,000 debt to be paid fully in two years?"

Menthol thought hard. While he wished Hero's fortune in his journeys, he could not simply give it in exchange for debt that may grow fatter every two years. "I'll be taking it."

A full-sized grin formed on Dalton's face. His metallic teeth gleamed in the noon light. "Great."