Part One: Edward Ramses

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Day 1

San Francisco

"You've lost a few pounds."

"Least you made up for it. Whiskey."

Laughing, Alex Moore poured two glasses and handed one to the much thinner man.

"What's it been, Mike?"

Michael Vance took a large gulp of the drink before answering, somewhat hoarsely. "Not since I left."

Alex walked around the desk and fell into his chair. Long enough, but his friend had aged years beyond that. Mike's cheeks were sunken, his eyes drawn in. His voice contained no trace of the power he'd used to build their company from its origins to the superpower that it became- the superpower that Alex himself stood at the head of.

Neither man said anything for a time. Mike's gaze was directed towards the large window, at the San Francisco that he couldn't remember.

When the silence became unbearable and Mike showed no sign of snapping out of his trance, Alex finally said, "Can't relate?"

"Hmm? No, nothing like it was when I left."

"You mean not burning?"

"Before-"

"I know what you meant. Where've you been, Mike? Leaving was one thing, but geez, you vanished, man."

He finished off his whiskey and said, "All we knew, you could've died."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "You didn't tell anyone I was here, did you?"

"You did ask me not to."

The other man relaxed. "Good."

"Why the secrecy?"

"Still not ready to show my face."

Will you ever be? "You have any idea what they say about you here? Hell, even the ones who weren't there back in the day, its all "What would Michael Vance have done?""

"You can't hear what people say about me from this high up.

"I wasn't proud of what I built when I left, and I'm not proud of what's been done with it, Alex."

"Now that’s not fair..."

Mike looked straight at him. For a fraction of a second, Alex swore he saw a bit of the old flame in his eyes, but it was wishful thinking. There were only shadows there.

"Alex... I'm sorry. I came back to see an old friend, not to reprimand you."

"No, it's my fault. I know how you feel about all this." He got up and put on his best grin. "More booze, that’s what we need. No more talk of business."

Mike forced a laugh and said, "The whiskey's terrible. Tell me you've got a beer."

---

"Too damned clean..." Mike muttered to himself as he walked away from the skyscraper. Two blocks from it, he spared a glace backwards and winced at the monstrosity. A uniform, gleaming block that stretched high above anything else in the city, all the intimidation of its predecessor but none of the majesty. It bore no distinguishing features save for two- its size, and the huge 'V' that was splashed across its entire height. Frowning, he spat on the pavement and moved on.

"Not a damn thing out of place..."

There weren't nearly enough people on the streets at night anymore. No one who wasn't homeless anyway- plenty of those, not in the open, but in any alleyway where he happened to look.

Anyone who wasn't a bum was dressed in more money than some people had ever seen. They looked at Mike like he shouldn't have been on the same sidewalk as they, damn them. His plain, brown coat was fine, thank you very much. He'd left their kind of life when he'd left their city.

Who was he kidding? What had been built in the ruins of the city he'd left was not San Francisco. This place was cold- the kind of cold his coat couldn't keep out. And at its helm was Alex Moore, his only remaining friend from the old world, heir to the company they'd both built.

You were so much better than this.

No. You were always this way. I'm the one that changed.

He quickened his pace, wishing he'd kept his promise to never come back. Three blocks to the garage, and he'd drive away.

Too far. He turned into an alley, vaguely sure that it would serve as a short cut. Faster he walked. Dark as hell- he could hardly see the ground in front of him. He reached into his coat and produced a tiny flashlight. Faster. Not fast enough.

"Hey!"

Startled, Mike halted and turned his flashlight at the direction of the sound- up. Almost instantly, a man landed right in front of him with a loud thud. Mike choked a cry of shock and fell backwards. The flashlight went rolling away.

"Who the hell-" he said, trying to push himself back. He couldn't make out anything beyond the other man's silhouette.

"Michael Vance."

Mike froze. How did he know who he was? Did Alex tell?

"H-have we met?"

"No. But I'm very familiar with your work. Can't say I'm your biggest fan, but that's critics for you."

Mike swallowed. "My work?"

"Now, now, don't be modest. All of this!" The man threw his arms outward. "Quite a piece, Mr. Vance. Are you proud of it?"

"Now look, I just came by to see a-"

"Yes, Moore, the fat man in the tower. He takes after you, but his style's become so much more aggressive since your retirement."

Mad. He's mad. "Who are you?"

"I'm just an art aficionado without a taste for contemporary."

The man pulled something out of his jacket and pointed it at Mike, whose eyes went wide.

"Oh God, please, I left! I hate it too, I hate-"

The man fired once and Mike's head jerked back.

"Yourself. I know," he said, putting his gun away.

---

Chicago

Goddamn phone... better be good. Cory Boyle reached for speakerphone and groggily said, "Boyle."

"Boss, you might want to get over here."

"You have ten seconds to convince me of that."

"They just found Michael Vance in an alley in San Fran. Dead. Its too early to be sure, but... good bet that it's Ramses' work."