Smoke lazily drifted throughout the cramped room like a thick of soup, coating the only window's light in a thick, smoggy filter. Within the room of monotone grey sat a cheap, plywood desk that sat opposite to the only entrance that didn't involve reenacting a chute-less paratrooper deployment off the fire escape on the twenty first floor. Said entrance itself was, similar to the desk, made of cheap wood that darkened with the ash permeating through the room. The room itself, while spartan and drab, held all the furnishings necessary to fulfill its use. Behind the desk, opposite the door, hung a framed document. The glass cover shrouded, diluted by the smoke slowly spreading through the room from a cigarette, which was atop a circular, metallic trey. The cigarette provided the only color in the room, as the grey smoke became faintly outlined by its orangey-red hue. The room, however, contained much more than the cheap wood and metal that comprised the miscellaneous furniture dotted around the cube adjacent room. Amongst the fog of monotone, grey ash was a single occupant, sitting behind the desk abreast of a plant, was a figure. Around him, the smoke and ash danced and swirled a vortex of that misty soot in muted grey. A dim, red dot shone like a star amongst the cosmos, faintly illuminating the face of the occupant. The blinders mounted upon the window divide the sun's rays into horizontal lines that form bars of light on his face, shifting to censor the man's eyes as the outside beamed in. Lit by the faint glow of fire and the outside light, a fully enclosed helmet was placed on the corner of the table. A bar of light meandered down onto the armor, unveiling the stenciled name "Sgt. Sok" stenciled above the brow-line of the helmet.

  The man reaches for the lit cigarette and raises it to his face and, in a faint red, revealing his eyes. Dead and dreary, they stare fixated to the door enraptured in anticipation. He blinks as he inhales the smoke, refocusing on the window on the wall to his left. The bright hues of blue, red, pink, and yellow shine through the glass in a brilliant display radiating the city's magnificence. The smog of manufacturing darkening the night sky contrasted the yellow and red lights from the streets below, as tall skyscrapers shine their light on the slums and alleyways below in a display of utter economic dominance. Giant signs of neon red, green and teal loom over the cityscape, advertising medical insurance, night clubs, and other amenities to populace for all to see. It was superficially beautiful; the clean and new were all the buildings and marketing fixtures focused on, as the slums and derelict buildings left abandoned remain cast in a veil of shadow. Ugly, writhing truths of grotesque tendrils undulating like a beating heart pumped the city full of crime and evil.

  How mighty have fallen for this once great city- the man turned back to the table, looking at the helmet that he presented proudly for the few who would ever come into a place such as this. He shook his head in disbelief, trying to recede into the escapism that his own imagination provided: his allies and commanders, his subordinates and the civilians he had saved. But it wasn't enough, it never was. The call to arms, the deployment, the trenches, the quiet, the battle, the fight, the funeral... it was all coming back to the old warhorse. He stole a glance at a framed photo next to his helmet, a photo of the ones he had once cared so much for that he had killed and bleed for them, and them alone. Shaking his head, he got up from the old, wooden, desk chair a friend had given him and wandered over toward the window. He stood there leaning against the old window and gazing out into the metropolis below him, the cigarette still glowing red as smoke whirled out from the stick and wafted to join the mass of smoke. A knock resounded from the door.

  "Detective-" the creek of the worn, poorly made door announced the entrance of a new figure. He was tall, too tall, with a suit of black embroidered with hues of a deep maroon for the stitching. The suit in question was incredibly clean, in spite of any and all conditions that stained the very air outside, which stood in stark contrast to the disheveled hair and scraggly five o'clock shadow that had more in common with a porcupine than any unshaven human. The Detective attempted to peered into the very soul of the man before him, imagining all the wacky, outlandish backstories that would have shaped the man in front of him. However, before The Detective's mind could run too far, the man spoke up. "Oh, what sanguine founded! For, without proper prosperous navigational tools, may this business be found. As I have come towards thee expressing deepest pleas in assisting, representing for which I come from an organization, for criminal punishment."

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  The detective paused for a moment attempting to translate the message, all while pushing off the wall and turning to face the man. So flowery was the language that his plant seemed to sprout flowers of their own, which made the Detective hesitate. The Detective pawed for the notebook attached to his left breast but thought better of it, as the man reached into his own coat pocket and pulled out a cardboard business card. The man held his card over his left breast and looked expectantly at the Detective. a pregnant, awkward pause filled the air between the smoke for a moment before he realized the man intended to hand the card over to him. The detective, extending his right hand, reached outward to receive the card and was rewarded with the man before him raising an eyebrow before he set the card down into the palm of the detective. The Detective turned over the card, giving it a once over, before pocketing the hard paper. On the man's suit, specifically on his right breast, was apparently either the man's name or the "organization" he "represented". Unfortunately, the Detective could not decipher the language used to represent the meaning of the name before him. Deciding that silence was the better part of valor, the Detective just nodded his head amicably. At this, the "client" nodded his head and smiled, seemingly glad to get on to the heart of the matter and continued his speech.

  "Ah... Detective, veterancy do you hold? A great caliber indeed, expected is said caliber to be displayed throughout the quest ahead of thee," the Detective retrieved his notebook and pen in a desperate attempt to scrawl down the information foreshadowed by the man's cough as he walked further into the room. "The subject, depicted young and feminine, escaped the original hands of 'The Fontain Foundation of Future Ventures'. As such, retrieval post haste is required. An expedited return would most appreciate the context, less the most despicable happens and the target herself is ruined."

  The Detective's mind was sent swimming, the translation eluding the Detective's most persistent of attempts, and simply responded with his usual line when offered a job: "Of course, do tell these facts pertaining the case at hand. Of interest would be most relevant to me would be said context." Nailed it. The surprise on the man' face was quickly masked by the sheer boredom only a trained politician could hold, but the Detective caught it." In particular-" The Detective continued, "May it be asked upon why this task has been delegated to this establishment?"

  "Why of course" the politician bowed slightly," the matter has been transferred upon you as a result of the similar nationalities held between the two, as it has been told the target herself may respond more directly to a fellow of her former nation. An Enforcer only adds to that trust, and we wish to exploit that vulnerability. This isn't a most pressing problem; would it not be?" The last line was delivered more... deliberately than the rest of the message, as its ominous meaning was well known to the Detective. "Of course, the subject was recently apart of the sistership program at the foundation. As such, she needs to be retrieved most immediately. Her name is Elisa Ve-dee, and she is of age to be pressed into education, whether or not she is of this nation isn't an issue here."

  "Yes sir," came the simple reply from the Detective, he knew this wasn't a subject he should broach, its taboo nature was too informal to. He reeled, but if he didn't get this girl found and put back from which she came she'd find no quarter amongst the nationals of this populace. "An image, if you'd please" The man bristled at the conjunction and proceeded to rifle through his coat pocket before handing over the photo of the girl in question. He held out the photo again, however, he decided to avoid the awkward pause gave the girl's photo to the Detective. She possessed a beautiful golden river of hair that cascaded down her shoulders and onto her back, and her bright blue eyes were deadened with the trauma she'd no doubt held onto to be in such institute. The Detective scrutinized every aspect of the girl, every single aspect of her was memorized and that memory memorized until he knew what she'd look like without reference from any possible angle. Black letters were tattooed upon her chest, a tradition from their link together: their country of origin. "FT - 4873451..." he mumbled to himself, both pleased that he could understand writing not his own, and... disheartened at the context in which this serial number was read. The Detective refocused on the face of the girl, her eyes were tired, unfocused, and dead. "...what did they do to you?" he asked no one in particular, as the door was slammed shut. Leaving the Detective to stare at the photo in the quiet of his office, twenty-one floors above the bustle of the people below. He turned back to his desk, catching a glimpse of his helmet as a horizontal bar of light descended upon a serial number: "FT - 3964354"