The bitter cold that had swept over New York City within the past week had ceased to keep the city at bay; it certainly shivered beneath the mass of arctic air but for a second it did not stop to pause and ask why. Like bundled up ants beneath a towering overlord, from a top floor corner office of the First Order Industries tower the citizens of NYC moved from hive to hive, the yellow cabs like golden splashes of paint against the cold and stark white of freshly fallen snow.
From within that sheltered top floor office Kylo Ren stared at the movement below, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers with his lower lip gripped between his teeth. There was tension in and amongst the FOI executive towards the man who had been made Chief Technical Officer, mostly due to his outbursts and violent temper – there was, too, the discourse between himself and Hux, a recently-promoted member of the executive who had taken over the job of Operations overseer. Needless to say, the two didn’t see eye to eye; Ren’s focus on one-upping their competitors and engineering technical marvels for the age contrasted in comparison to Hux’s almost militaristic tendencies. The other man had been placed by Hydra, now FOI’s largest contract, and developing weapons for the organization’s use was now (much to Ren’s chagrin) a high priority.
Ren sighed – there was no point worrying over the next meeting between the executive now. He had things to do, research to get done. With a relenting sigh, long fingers raking through his wavy black hair, he took a seat behind his desk. The surface was cluttered with files and paperwork, with schematics and designs for the next great piece of tech; designs of weapons that he needed to get his team of engineers on in order to bring them to life. Hydra was a demanding client that did not take kindly to deadlines not being met, and Kylo knew that soon they would be needing to ship out the next batch of superweapons. With another drawn-out sign he pulled a stack of papers from the floor, resolving himself to at least complete a plan for the next roll-out by the end of the day.
THE MISSION brief was simple; make sure that a contractor keeps up their end of the bargain and maintain a presence until they get the message that they were not dealing with some run of the mill mercenary unit. Much like the bodyguard details had been posted to in the past, this was less of a task to scratch a name off a list and more of keeping up appearances. He was there to look intimidating, a scare tactic. First Order Industries would learn their place in the grand scheme of things or be squished like an insect under the boot of their betters. The mission brief was said only once but once was all that was needed. The rest of the day is spent in the back of a van with blacked out windows, leading a convoy of identical black trucks loaded with the rest of the assigned team. The mission brief repeats in a mind that screams in an agony that never reaches the face.
The Asset arrives in the FOI lobby like a whirlwind; the sound of heavy boots on polished floors, the distinctive clatter of guns in hands and armoured men storming through the doors at a run. Somewhere in the distance a woman screams as an armed man bursts through into her office and is told to shut up down the barrel of an assault rifle. She does. Security cowers, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of men with guns; an assault squad entering at a jog. The Asset does not run. He enters at a walk in the middle of the stream of grunts, armed to the teeth and in no rush. He’s flanked by a woman in heels and a pencil skirt and a man in an expensive suit but no one is looking at them. All eyes are on the mask and goggles, on the long hair, on the leather jacket and hint of metal glinting from exposed fingers. On the guns.
His finger is not on the trigger of his assault rifle but the safety is off. Cold, analytical eyes scan the area through red-tinted lenses as he stops, dead center of the shiny floor, letting the suited man and woman walk on forward. “We’re here to speak to your boss, sweetie,” purrs the woman to the terrified girl behind the desk, though the Asset is more tuned in to the sound of an alarm further in the building. Brows twitch inward slightly as he only half listens to the receptionists call it through and he automatically knows that her actions are a pointless exercise - the alarm has done her job for her.
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