Sir Galahad II
Semi-colon Evangelist
Lynnhaven. The corpse of the American Dream.
The day was July 4th, 2076, approximately 7 AM. Rain descended in sheets upon the labrynth that was the city, though the July temperatures somewhat made up for it. Regardless of the weather, it was business as usual. Flashes of neon swirled in the pools that collected on the ground, the concrete buildings that held them standing stoically against the precipitation. People drove or were driven to work, the club, a friend's apartment, you name it. The police did their daily rounds. Most people didn't have jobs, of course, so most of them stayed home. Fortunately for the people that were out, this meant not as much traffic. It was business as usual for Old Town as well. The poor had nothing to do but stay indoors, inside their decaying brick, wood, and plaster homes in the former suburbs. Most criminals didn't even bother walking around Old Town, especially in this weather. Who was there to steal from?
The ALP, too, stayed indoors, but it wasn't like they had a choice in the matter.
A man was sitting alone in an office, beneath an abandoned warehouse. He stared down at a folder on his desk, labled "recruits." Sighing, he took his smartphone from his pocket and called one of the many agents under his command. Another man, who very much abided by old-world culture and fashion, answered.
"Wilson," the first man said. "It's almost time to go meet the recruits."
"Way ahead of you, boss," said the second man. He was moving through the mess hall, then through the "living room" as the agents liked to call it, through the hallway that lead to the elevator, up the elevator, and finally through the warehouse and out the door. He had a small hand-held lantern in his hand, turning it on before setting it down by his feet. Finally, Wilson leaned against the wooden wall of the decrepid warehouse, and waited.
...
Meanwhile, ITF1 was tirelessly at work as well.
A woman in a pencil-skirt moved with urgency through a tall office building, having taken the elevator several stories in the air. Finally, at the top floor, she entered the presidential suite, marching to a man in a black suit as he peered through the rain-splattered window, down at the cityscape below.
"Sir," she said, "why haven't you-"
"Helen, baby," the man said, turning towards her with a smile on his face. "Please, knock before you enter, would you? We've been over this." The woman grumbled underneath her breath.
"Sorry, sir. As I was saying, why haven't you been answering your phone? ITF1 has been trying to contact you for thirty minutes. They sent me to speak to you in person."
"I'm a busy man, sweetheart. What's so urgent, anyway?"
"ITF1 recieved intel saying the ALP is going to try something today. They think-"
"Helen, the ALP is dead," he said, holding back laughter. "What, do you want me to send the best men in the city out on a witch hunt for a threat that isn't even there? Waste tax dollars? Come now. This is a non-issue."
"Sir!" said the woman, her face turning a bright red, "A counter-terrorist organization is telling you that there is a threat in our city, and you're just-" The suit held out his hand, stopping the woman and making her face turn an even brighter red.
"At ease, soldier. Run along now."
She stood there, mouth agape, for a few moments. Then, gathering herself from the shock of what just happened, she turned and stormed out of the office.