Monica doesn't say shit to anyone in the office.  That would be a massive bullseye of weakness.  Might as well just wave a flag that says: poach my clients.  And in the world of marketing, no one needs much of an excuse to jump ship and head off to supposed greener pastures.  0.01% means something when billions of eb's are in play.  There's no watercooler talk about the Listeners.  There's barely any mention of having one of her favorite suits replaced.  So it's a bit of a jolt when she gets a ping on her tablet asking her to report to her manager's office in order to discuss recent activities.

With an inborn understanding of corporate power structures, Monica knows that keeping her boss happy, keeps the world turning and money flowing, so the Exec stands, smooths her second favorite skirt and jacket down, checks her reflection in a bit of polished glass as she walks down the hallway.  Monica pauses, straightens her spine, tightens her abs as her sensei has taught her and knocks.

The name on the door says: Avery Bynum, Senior Director of Product Development.

"Come," Avery says, her voice tight and sharp.

Monica obeys, opens the door and steps into an office lit with natural light, floor to ceiling windows on the south and west side corner of the building.  There's hardly any furniture, two chairs, a twisted piece of petrified Bristlecone pine that rumor has Avery used to beat her former boss to death, and a refrigerator.  The rest of her work Monica's boss does on her feet, pacing in stiletto heels.  The woman is severe, dressed sharply in a suit that Monica dreams of buying.  Nothing is out of place.  Everything controlled.

"Monica," Avery beams with cruel eyes, holding out her hands for the ritual cheek kissing, "my dear it is so good to see you!"
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:19, Sun 25 Apr 2021.

“It’s been too long,” Monica lies out of a pleasantly turned mouth.  She takes Avery’s hands, leans in and brushes her lips across each of Avery’s cheeks while her boss does the same.  Monica once again wishes she’d bothered to layer contact poison on her cheeks just to watch this machine of a woman squirm on the floor while her flesh peels away.  That said poison might also kill Del Rey is something she resolves to address at a later date.  The two women separate efficiently, each back to her assigned half of the duel ground.

Round 1 goes to Avery by default.  That’s what happens when the boss issues the summons.

“How is the MeltLab contract coming?” Avery asks, pretending to give a shit.

Joke’s on her.

“Quite well, thank you,” Monica beams.  “We’ve beat the projected performance of the campaign by 24 bips.  Turns out handing free clothes to the homeless is effective deterrent to product growth when it’s emblazoned with the competitor’s name and awards.  They desecrate everything.”

“Animals will shit where they eat,” Avery says, composure maintained.

Round 2 goes to Monica, because fuck you, my work paid off despite your dipshit recommendations.

“Quite,” Monica nods.  “And the Valcamane issue? Did that resolve to your satisfaction?” 

Critical mistake for Avery.  Should have played the Valcamane card early and make Monica take credit for this one instead of giving the junior partner an opening for an effective thrust..

Avery tilts her head. “Oh very well, thank you.  I must admit, your team came through.  I was skeptical on your intercept plan, but the software was slipped past the NetWatch guardians quite effectively.”  The Senior Director looks fine, though Monica knows she’d rather eat glass than utter a compliment.

“Should make my quarterly performance report rather significant,” Monica reminds her.

Round 3 goes to Monica due to poor planning on the part of her adversary.  With two rounds left, the duel is still up in the air.

“Probably,” Avery concedes.  This is out of character and causes Monica to drop into a rhetorical defensive stance.  The haymaker is coming.  “Though your quarterly may have to reflect a few oddities as well.”

“Oh?” Monica asks with fake non-chalance. “Nothing that can’t be justified, I’m sure.”

“I certainly hope so.  The Kannerack File?”

Well fuck me sideways, Monica’s internal monologue spits out.  Her outer shell doesn’t crack.  Too many meetings like this one.  Too many years and too many eddies mastering emotional responses.  Avery looks on expectantly.  “I didn’t realize that worry about my research took up so much of your valuable time.”

“Not your research my dear.  I monitor certain files.  Some tell stories.  Kannerack being a prime example.  You see, every junior partner that reaches the apex of their ability eventually turns to Kannerack in the hopes that they can magic a rabbit out of the steaming shit pit their imaginations have become.  The dismissals practically write themselves from that point forward. You can set a watch.” Avery lets the smug tone rip on this one, really relishing the moment.

Round 4: Avery.  She may be mistaken as to Monica’s reasons, but this is still a fucking coup in the duel.

Except that it’s not.  Which Monica knows.  And Avery, very clearly, does not.

“It appears that my report has not found it’s way to your agent yet,” Monica croons.  It can’t because it’s not written.  There’s time for that later.  “Kannerack was incomplete, but the foundations are sound.”

“Your certainty is rather sad, Monica.  Delusional.”

“I’m not delusional.  I’ve seen evidence of Kannerack’s theories in the field.  He was right.  Psychological and physiological dependence on data is possible.  But the signal itself must be moderated.”

Avery takes a step forward into striking range.  Monica briefly runs through the complete list of Jiu-Jitsu takedowns that would result in maximum pain for her superior, each fantasy giving her a little thrill.   “You are sure?”  The senior director can’t contain herself.  She’s already counting the eddies CloudKill will make if this is true, pride be damned.  Wealth excuses all manner of sellouts.

“I am.”

“You will prove it.”

“Of course.”

Round 5 goes to Monica by a hair.  But if she plays her hand right, the next bout will be a clean sweep.

Twelve hours after the meeting

Those that don’t really know much about Fight Night say that the first rule of Fight Night is that you don’t talk about it.

That’s bullshit.

Everyone knows the only rule of Fight Night is to make sure that you don’t lose.

The cage is circular, maybe five or six metres in diameter.  The lights are bright, flooding it with light while also serving to make the crowd that’s gathered around it baying for blood little more than indistinct shapes. It’s a world away from the jazz club where she met Black Jasper.

Karma’s doing her best to satiate their blood lust. Not for their sake. For her own. Her bare foot impacts with the face of the nook that she’s locked in the cage with. It’s her own choice to be locked in a cage with a total stranger. That’s the way Fight Night works. Two of you go into the cage. Anything goes, no rules. Just random violence until one of you taps out. Or passes out. Or gets carried out.

The moob flails, tries to land a punch. Karma figures he’s on the edge. She dodges the blow, lands one of her own, a punch to the face followed by a spin that sees her right foot smash into the moob’s leg behind the knee. Karma’s hyper motivated for this. The moob doesn’t know it but he’s a surrogate Avery. Fucking bitch. Karma lands the third element of the three part combo that has its origins in a particularly lethal fusion of Krav-Maga and Combat Sambo. MDR is a blue belt.

The moob goes down. Slams his palm against the metal flooring that is slick with blood. His and Monica’s. He’d got a few blows in. It’s the missio. He’s had enough. Monica’s almost disappointed.

Twenty minutes later the dark haired marketing exec is one of the baying mob when the next fight orgy of random and senseless violence begins. She’s freshly showered, rocking a Nomad Leather look, and has a bottle of beer in her hand. Her attention is wandering in different directions. Most of the time her eyes are on the next two eager participants who trying to knock shit out of each other. But occasionally they drift around the crowd. She’s seen at least two guys and one girl give her the eye but she’s keeping her options open. For now. That might change later. But she’s got some business to attend to first.

”You done something with your hair, Del Rey? It looks different”

”Hey Dolores, good to see you too.” As she speaks one of the moobs in the cage lands a blow that shatters the other’s nose. Random acts of violence. Fuck Avery. Karma turns to the blonde haired woman that’s stepped right into her private space.

”I heard you’ve had a little adventure.” Of course she had. Dolores had connections. She knew shit. That's why Monica had asked her to meet her here.

Karma nods. ”You could say that.” She turns her head slightly, looks at Dolores. ”Something I need to know. What happened. Was it random? Wrong place, wrong time? Or is someone after me? Reckon you can ask around?”

Dolores doesn’t so much as blow the chin length blond hair out of her face as will the tech hair to flow away of it’s own accord and frame her heart shaped face.

“You aren’t one for coincidence, Karma.  That’s why we get along so well.”  The Fixer raises an arm to get the bartender’s attention, the arm MDR knows is flesh covered cybernetic with a host of nasty surprises for anyone who gets close enough to find out the hard way.  A custom cocktail,  a mix of bourbon, whiskey, bitters, and more appears without her having to specify what she’s having.  It’s nice to be a regular in a den of violence.  She tilts the glass to Monica in a salute before she takes half of the cocktail in one pull.

“Happy to ask, of course.  Pay only what it’s worth to ya on results.”

“As usual.”

“As usual.,” Dolores confirms.  “What ya got that will help me out?”

Now here is the rub.  How much to share without coming off looking like a victim.  Too easy to spread rumors.  Dolores sips her drink and waits for MDR to fill her in.

Monica doesn’t hate the moment her agent wakes her up.  The internal beeping is the tell-tale sign that it’s time to make the donuts.  And by making donuts she means making Eddies on the backs of her competitors.  Wealth isn’t even about keeping score.  It’s about watching her opponents crumble as she walks away with the prize.  Cash money is just the icing on the cake.

The exec disentangles herself from the limbs filling her bed.  Ringo snores heavily, head tilted back nearly falling off the mattress.  Caldwell still wears a stoned grin of surprise, grafted to his face in his sleep.  He clearly hadn’t expected the post mission bliss to turn into post coital bliss.  Well, if you don’t like it, don’t save the bosses life.  Rewards have their rewards.

Showering isn’t optional.  MDR heads to the spray of warm clean water enjoying both the pounding on her tender flesh and the fact that in ten minutes she uses more clean water than folks in the combat zone see in a year.  Maybe she is an asshole.  Probably is, in fact.  Still, rewards have their rewards.

She emerges, still sore from bullets and bite marks, some twenty minutes later, dressed to kill.  The trip to the CloudKill office doesn’t long.  She stops her for caf.  Stops for a bagel.  Stops to brush crumbs off her power dress.  Wouldn’t want to spoil this with an errant organic chia seed or bit of non-GMO wheat.  She slides into the lobby of their building, slides her pass through the security check, slides past the metal detector (because that shit is for low level peons), and slides her fingers down the bank of elevator buttons.  Punches twenty-four.

The walk down the hall is thrilling, an expectant tickle.  She hovers in front of Avery’s door.  Smoothes down a hungry smile into a predatory leer.  Knocks twice.

And gets nothing.

Knocks again.

Gets nothing again.

“The fuck?” MDR whispers.  Throwing patience to the wind, Monica twists the door handle, finds it unlocked (surprise number 1), and pushes the door open.  The office isn’t empty.  Standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back is Mr. Thornton.  All five foot two of him (Surprise number 2).

For a moment, Karma doesn’t quite know what to say.  Thornton doesn’t turn around.

“Monica,” he says without turning.  “You were expecting Avery, to be sure.”

“To be sure.” Monica joins him at the window.  She looks at his suit, handwoven with wool from virgin goats, daily massaged with olive oil by six year old boys picked from Kazakhstani orphanages for their finger dexterity.  The ring on his pinky could buy a building.

“You hoped to gloat.  To rub her face in your victory.”

More like push her face repeatedly into her desk and finish her off with a couple blows from a paperweight.

“I do not blame you for this.”

Because you encourage it.

“Alas, your promotion will have to wait.  No Avery, no promotion.  We still need a few bits and pieces from your superior.  And…” Thornton spreads his hands helplessly using only his voice.

“No Avery,” MDR finishes lamely.

“You do get to the heart of the matter.” Thornton defies physics and looks down on her from six inches below her sight line.  “Have a good day.” The CEO of Cloudkill strides out of the room, message delivered.

MDR sighs.  Punches the window in what is supposed to now be her office.  Maybe she would already be watching maintenance use Windex to wash blood off the glass.  No Avery, no promotion.

She starts making calls.