Hunters' Dilemma: Part Two - City of London
England's financial heart and the sanctum of capitalism. Towering skyscrapers stood like obelisks from financial mythology, embodiments of avarice worship, no different from temples enshrining the almighty pound. And among them, one building thrust its head highest in arrogant defiance, piercing the heavens: the Eternal Empire building, headquarters for all financial subsidiaries under the Anastasis Group.
Atop its glass-clad ziggurat on the 97th floor lay a darkened office. A gaunt man with sunken eyes and black hair slicked fully back sat alone like the room's master. Veins bulging at his neck, he bellowed in frenzied rage.
"You crazy bitch!!!!"
The man's name was Jacob Cypress, head of Anastasis's Strategic Intelligence Division. But it wasn't madness that had the intel chief screaming alone. He was on a call. Even in holographic video, the other side was mosaicked as if they despised showing their face. Below it read the recipient title: [Special Operations Chief].
"Butting in without a word of warning, then pulling that crap...! Your mongrel scum got wrecked, and you're still talking big!"
Cypress ground his teeth. Their failure to prevent the war had let Security's noses rise to the skies. Any military gained ground when war broke out. Especially galling that the prime beneficiary was this parachuted Special Ops chief—it boiled his blood.
"In this climate, openly attacking another megacorp—what's the play?! Trying to start another war?!"
"That's not the only issue! You know we're public enemy number one in London right now? Too busy lounging in Luxembourg to notice!"
The intel chief couldn't hold his temper, scratching his head furiously before suppressing his rage in a low growl.
"Anyway, we'll handle the Elson mess ourselves, so stay out of it. Didn't we agree London postwar cleanup was our gig?"
"Yeah, thanks to who? Transco forces in London now top 7,000. Coulda snatched him at the right moment, but no..."
"Please!! We'll handle it here—just stay put!!!"
For Cypress, London's chaos was bad enough; ally troop movements gnawed at him too. With that reckless sort wielding military command as acting security chief, watching his back was prudent. Some in intel even suspected Security provoked Transco to justify sending purge forces to London. Classic script: create crisis, "resolve" it, turn the blade inward.
Under mutual distrust, their rift widened. The office echoed with curses amid shouts. Was this business or subway brawl? It seemed headed nowhere.
But then—
As Cypress reached his limit and moved to end the call, a young, lively man's cheerful voice rang from behind. He whipped around in shock. The window doubling as a screen now displayed a shadowy figure.
The intel chief bowed hastily. No choice. The figure was Anastasis's supreme leader—the chairman himself.
"S-sorry, sir! Just a heated work discussion... How was your vacation?"
Still bowed, Cypress barely hid his tremor. 'How long was he watching?' Gooseflesh prickled his spine.
From the screen came a playful voice laced with mirth.
The subtle rebuke had the intel chief sweating bullets in abject apology.
The still-connected Special Ops chief bent her attitude for the first time, offering contrition.
"...My apologies, Master. I fell short of expectations."
"I hate the cold."
"Sure, we'll see then."
Cypress inwardly bristled at their chummy banter, excluding him. Master, even! In this vast organization, how improper, private—unhealthy—their bond seemed! Decades of ruthless climbing, and his position eclipsed by such flimsy familiarity? An unbearable insult, though he hid it.
"Yes, sir! Your orders?"
Peeking up, Cypress saw a wintry vista: pristine snowfields like untouched purity, frozen river below, salt-dusted forests piled high opposite. But dominating it all: a lone figure. In a blue-black parka, hood with fur trim flipped up, no face—just eerie glowing rays where features should be. Like a morning star, the brilliant beams drew the eye.
"Y-yes, sir. Recent ops escalated Transco tensions; government, parliament, corps—all condemning us. So for now, I've—"
"Pardon?"
Cypress sounded dumbfounded. The chairman pressed on, arms outstretched in apparent ecstasy, voice rising—like one finally finding long-lost treasure. The glow seemed fiercer.
"S-sorry, I don't follow."
As far as Cypress knew, the Anastasis chairman had no children. Maybe hidden seeds sown, but William? No birth secrets; ordinary origins.
Ignoring the confusion, the chairman continued.
"...Understood, Master."
"I'll obey."
The Special Ops chief—Lakia—accepted calmly. A stark shift from her earlier sass; duty's leash held firm.
"Wise, Master."
"O-of course."
The chairman tilted his head, peering down. Faint features and hair peeked through the glow—vaguely human. But no filter pierced the light. Not hologram or distortion; something real.
"Thank you, sir! I won't disappoint!"
"...I'll do my best."
Pop! The screen blanked. Outside gleamed the City's dazzling skyscraper forest, contrasting nature's majesty. Special Ops had disconnected too.
Cypress wiped cold sweat. Face-to-face confirmation: he danced in the chairman's palm. Plus a clear message—fail, and Security devours him.
"...So, catch Elson's heir by any means."
He swept his face with both hands, then summoned three console screens. One: William Wentworth's profile. Another: Stefan Eldonbridge in black shirt, hair swept back. Last: an orange-haired woman.
Cypress pondered traps from his cards and the enemy's. Last chance, he reminded himself inwardly.