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Workaday Any Way(IC)


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January 15th, 6.15, Wednesday, 2014
Blue Moon Pub & Grill, Southside

"...and so, introducing Joe, a man who needs no introduction!" declared Stanislaw in a mock-stentorian voice, his broad face red from both suppressed laughter and the heat of the room, thanks the kitchen door left open to let the aroma of cooking meat work its magic. Raising a glass mug from the bar, filled with the local ale and glittering like liquid gold(if one was feeling high-minded), he offered it to Joe Macayle with a solemn "Your award, sir, for spectacular achievement in the realm of Doing a Damned Day's Work Without Whining. Bear it with pride and honor. A toast, ladies and gentlemen, to Joe!"


"To Joe!" repeated the rest of Joe's shift, who in better or worse unison downed a mouthful of ale, giving a round of exaggerated applause alongside quite sincere grins. Though the half-emptied mugs were part of that.


The steel plant had just finished the Week of Champions, where the exemplary output and smooth running of the plant over the last three years had gotten its managers and staff a slew of corporate awards, delivered with about as much passion and dignity as the average office birthday party. The lower-rung staff hadn't been afforded the same honors, though that and the notable pay increase was considered by most of Macayle's shift to be a much better deal, and after the day was over many of them had decided to hold their own awards ceremony at the Blue Moon. Stanislaw, as the most generally senior employee, had been Master of Ceremonies.


Since Joe had been last in line, he gratefully dropped his mighty bulk down onto the chair beneath him and nodded sagely to the long-suffering bartender "A little recognition for the workin' man, brother. Don't tell me you don't want some too!" He was answered with a snort and the clunk of another mug being placed in front of him which the burly man happily scooped closer.


"Recognition for what?" A much less friendly voice asked from a table behind them "For being the longshoremen of the steel industry?" The speaker was dressed in a crisp dark grey suit, with dark curly hair and a short beard, looking sourly at the millers "For being (@##& machines, is that it?"


It got a lot quieter. Most of the workmen at the steel mill weren't as big as Joe or Stanislaw, but they all suddenly looked that much more dangerous.


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It wasn't anything huge, but the fact that it was happening was enough. Joe knew that his factory was a lot better than other workplaces - the workers got along with management fine most of the time, save for little brain farts like the recent parade of backpats. Then again, they'd take a pay raise over a metaphorical title any day. But occasions like this were still something to ring some joy from - a chance to get together, feel a sense of solidarity, and most importantly, drink themselves stupid. 


"Thanks, guys," he said, standing on his chair in a somewhat ill-advised fashion. "When I was just a little kid, I dreamt of the day when I'd be able to get through a nine to five shift without bitching or screwing something up. What can I say, I had really lame dreams. But I gotta say, I couldn't pick a better crew to work with."


The circle of accolades continued - at least, until the guy in the suit came in. Something about his appearance raised Joe's hackles; reminded him about some of the so-called "citizen activists" who'd incite fights with workers while wired for video, then go screaming to the press about "union thuggery." He held up a hand to the others, and stepped forward. "Guessing there's some sort of issue here," he said. "You wanna talk it out?"

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"Talk? Sure thing, buddy!" The man got up instantly, looking straight at Joe. He was a good few inches shorter, and obviously lacked the steelworker's brawn, but seemed to like his odds. "What shall we discuss first, impeding technological progress or maybe the intrinsic drag on society that physical labor has been for thirty years?" His eyes burned up at Joe, but his stance seemed more like somebody prepping for an argument than a brawl.


A voice broke in, much rougher than any of the people from the mill "Son, you should leave. Quit while you're ahead."


From one of the corner tables a sturdy man with a a craggy face and iron-gray hair stepped up. He was dressed in a tight-fitting white shirt and thick jeans studded with patches, with thin glasses. Giving Joe a quick nod he turned back to the suited man, who looked him up and down sourly. "I've got as much right to be here as anyone!" he snapped "What, don't want people crashing your back-patting?"

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Great. One of these assholes. Joe knew this kind of thing required a delicate response. Normally, he'd be happy to just unleash a tide of profanity and raise both middle fingers wide, but these guys were obviously here for some sort of ideological jousting match. And turning back to the table and trying to focus on drink and good company would give them the chance to curl up with their self-righteousness to keep their warm at night. So, clearly a delicate response was necessary. 


"All right," he said. "Let's assume we're moving forward to a future of robots, where everything from construction to manufacturing to fast food is automated. That may happen, but it's going to be a ways in the future. Even once the tech's good enough for a test run, it's still gonna be pricey. It'll take years, if not decades, before it can get down to the point where there's one in every store, factory, etc. Even then, there's still gonna be a human talent pool - for machine repairs, for quality control, and other positions that still need to be watched over, just to make sure the whole place doesn't go berserk."


"And even then, let's say there's a fully automated workplace. Even if it goes crazy, it can fix itself. Fully automated grocery store. Fully automated coffee shop. And, hey, let's assume everyone's gotten to the point where they're perfectly cool with doing all of this without human interaction. Works for me. There's still going to be a human talent pool. And there are still going to be jobs that'll require human input and insight. There's always gonna be a need for a critical eye and gut instinct. May not be in construction, or steelworking, or any of that - but there'll still be a job to do. And we'll do it."


Joe looked the guy right in the eye. "Now, I'd be happy to discuss the points on this a bit more. Right now, though? I'd kinda like to get back to my friends. I'm sure you've got someone who'll tolerate you somewhere. Might wanna go find 'em."

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For a second the shorter man's eyes blazed, his shoulders tensed, and the expectant hush before fights broke out started to grow. Joe could even sense the bouncers starting to head wearily towards them.


Then, with a muttered snarl, he nodded once and returned to his seat, grabbed his coat, payed at the bar and left without a backward glance into the snowy night.


The craggy-faced man relaxed, sighing audibly, and approaching Joe offered him a hand like a slab of scarred rock, grinning broadly "Good work there, brother. Didn't think he'd leave that easy. You do a lot of speakin' like that? I'm Joe by the way," he added warmly "Joe Fielders. Mind if I join you and your merry band?"

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Joe took the craggy-faced man's hand with a wry smile. "Thanks," he said. "I ain't exactly Mother Jones or Cesar Chavez  - and I like to think I'm not Jimmy Hoffa - but I know how to deflate a few assholes. Usually guys who read too much Ayn Rand. And come on, have a seat." 


He led the new guy over to the table, where the rest of the guys weren't exactly hostile to him joining the party. "So, two things. One, sounds like you've got an interest. You with one of the local shops, or you looking to join up? And second, you seem like you knew the guy. He an old friend, an old enemy, or just one of the cranks I ain't had the 'fortune' of meeting yet?" 

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"Thanks dude!" Joe said with a grin that lit up his face and nearly hid his eyes "And don't sell yourself so short, Joe" he added, giving a quick wave to the rest of the mill crew before sitting down next to Joe and Stanislaw while he signaled for another glass "you've got no idea how many people don't know how to lay things out like that. It's a gift, I mean it."


"As for what I do and if I know that guy? Well Joe, I'm in a security service. Not a PMC," he added with a sharp glance over at the other man "to make that perfectly clear. We're a company and we contract our services to people, sometimes small executive groups, but we're not like those ****ing mercenaries. And that guy...I know his name, and we used to work together, but we weren't ever close. He's Pierce something-ski, got a bunch of degrees in robotics and tech-stuff. Always been kinda sore about people doin' work he thinks should be done by machines, but he's never been this mouthy."


Taking a hefty drink from the mug, throat pumping visibly and eyes half-closed in relish, Joe slowly lowered the glass and let out a deep sigh. Then his hooded eyes opened and brightened with an idea "Hey, Joe, sorry to spring this so sudden, but you got a weekend free comin' up? Me and the other guys have got a meeting with some of my company's bosses a little later this month, talking over a little safety dispute, and it'd be great to have a guy who knows how to be diplomatic around. A lot of the guys and gals we've got are long on muscles and, well, just a little shorter on people skills." He said the last with a wry grimace.


"Hah! Check it out Joe, your golden tongue's in high demand!" laughed Stanislaw.

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Joe turned it over in his head. Private guards often had their own kinds of unions, so the fact that this guy was talking about striking out on his own was a bit strange. But maybe it was a matter of philosophical differences... or maybe just a matter of career. The fact that this guy had been clear he wasn't with a PMC was interesting - he wondered what would happen if mercenaries decided to organize - but the comparison probably meant it was somewhere in that area. Maybe it was private security for local tech firms - Freedom was one hell of a silicon city, and a lot of the tech guys and venture capitalists had iffy ideas on labor. Which would've explained the snit fit by the "old friend"...


Still, it might be worth checking out, at the very least. If they turned out to be cranks, he could always just walk out the door. "Hey, what the heck," he said. "Weekend's wide open. I'd like to at least hear what you've got to say." 

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"Great to hear it brother!" Joe's grin had gone from almost falsely beaming to thankful, and he raised his glass to Joe "I'll give you the address so we won't need to coordinate too much; it's a place on Kissinger, hard to miss..."


That Saturday, 7.50 PM...


The 'place on Kissinger' turned out to be a blocky brown office complex that proudly advertised the local firms and factories it did the paperwork for on a lit sign out the front. Most of the floor lights were already off, but the windows at the top still shone. Joe Fielders was waiting in the parking lot, sitting on the roof of a small yellow car that looked at least two decades old and hadn't so much as a speck of dust. He was smoking a stubby cigarette with a downright meditative air, apparently lost in thought. Despite the icy chill and the snow his only visible surrender to winter was a faded tan trench coat that looked like it had been dragged and beaten as much as worn.


He had turned to watch the windows high above, and from the faint sound of his voice and the movement of his scarred lips Joe was talking to himself. The crunch of snow under the approaching superhero's feet jerked him out of whatever reverie he was in, and coming down from his perch the man smiled cheerfully at Joe, grinding out the cigarette under his boot as he hollered "Hey there, brother! Good to see ya, glad you're here. Let's head in and introduce ya, then get started, eh?" The stark lights made it hard to tell, but he almost seemed relieved.

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Joe didn't quite know what to expect for the gathering. He'd seen more than a few union gathers held in bars - for surprisingly good reason - and more than a few held in dedicated halls, though those places seemed rather rare these days. It looked like these guys had managed to rent out the place for the day; then again, given how it looked, that might have required nothing more than pocket change. Still. These guys sounded like they were just starting out from nothing, so he wasn't going to hold their choice of digs against them. He'd brought along some beer and one of those catering trays of sandwiches, but those would wait until after the deliberations. 


"Good to see you again," he said. "Let's start setting this stuff in order." 

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Joe nodded, and started to lead the way inside, opening the front door with a rattle of the uncooperative key.

"Alright. We're in good time, so I've got a second to give you a few more details." He began in a low, almost conspiratorial tone as the pair walked up the dimly-lit stairway, their booted feet echoing through the cryptlike offices they passed "Last month there was a big mess with my crews' last two jobs, just catastrophic. The clients, a tech firm and a chemistry group had this deal going on where they'd share resources, eye-ee us, between 'em, and we'd make sure neither got more than the other in terms of manpower, since their operations were pretty much the same size and risk level. See...it locked it behind me, 'course."


Halting at a locked door half-way up the building, the older man grimaced to himself, a move that badly twisted his already craggy face, and pulled out the ring of keys again. Trying one and then another fruitlessly, he glanced apologetically at Joe "Sorry, doors and me are mortal enemies. Snapped the key to my own home three times this week. Gimme a second." sliding one it halfway, he suddenly hit the underside of the lock with a precisely-placed rap, grinning in triumph as it clicked and the key twisted neatly. Jiggling out the key and resuming the walk and talk, he seemed that much more at ease.


"Anyway, both places came under fire, Foundry attack, you know how it goes. Suddenly the security systems are working against you, automatic doors trapping whole floors, bad stuff. But my teams have dealt with it before, and they were doing a pretty good job fighting back, waiting for STAR Squad and our friends in the sky to show up. Then the chemical leak started in the labs, pumped by the vent system through the whole building. It didn't do much to organic material, or they'd be dead, but it ate right through metal, including the guns and armor plates my teams use, and it destroyed their gas masks. Five are hospitalized from all the airborne heavy metals alone." For a few seconds Joe's jaw worked silently, his easy-going attitude cracking, then he smiled "They're tough bastards. They'll pull through. And the four from the roboticist's can keep 'em company with their own story. See, the company was working on AIs. Who isn't, right? Drones, automated defense installations, the future of war is lookin' pretty darn detached right now. So the boss gets this bright idea to hand some of his robot friends guns from our armory and join the fray. So they charge in, and start doing some real damage, seriously I was pretty impressed when I saw the footage. But there was a flaw in the boss's brilliant scheme. They were fighting the Foundry. With robots. You can guess how that went."

Edited by Arichamus
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Joe sat, listening to the other Joe's account of the perils of his guys' old job. There was that nagging instinct at the back of his head - despite the fact that these guys claimed not to be private contractors, they seemed to be working in some heated environments in something of a security aspect. But if that was the case, then why were they trying to start their own union? It might be the tier of potential threats - it wasn't the usual warehouse or tech firm that came under assault from the Foundry - but even with all of that...


A possibility started developing in his head, but it wasn't one he wanted to think of. He looked around the guys he was sitting with - most of them looked rough around the edges, but then again, so did a good chunk of the guys at the steel mill. He wasn't going to stereotype, but... well, he'd run into a number of guys like that when breaking up drug labs, or smuggling operations, or... 


Don't jump to conclusions. Hear them out. If it comes down to that... well, you'll figure out what to do. 

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The pair had come up to the lighted floor, and the formerly silent air was filled with the noise of cheerful conversation from voices that soundly just a little familiar to Joe's ears. Bursting into the room, Fielders waved grandly to the crowd of hard-looking men and women who had managed to cram themselves onto the floor, "Brothers! And sisters. This is Joe, he's gonna help us make a deal, and he's gonna do it the way we can't: calmly, and without shooting anyone." The chorus of laughter that followed was broken up with scattered "Nice to meet you!"s, and a few of the less hard-bitten ones came up to shake the newcomer's hand; but there was a clear divide between Joe Fielder's company and Joe Macayle. For the most part he was regarded with a little unease.

With most of the ice broken, the security teams settled up against the walls of the main room, clearing the desks and waiting patiently. Before the first five minutes had passed, however, the clock above the bare reception desk chimed eight, and the door Joe had just passed through opened again. Two middle-aged women in business suits of exciting grey hues entered, pausing as they surveyed the assembly of muscle before them, and then proceeding to the table with four chairs set up in the middle of the main room. One of them with greying black hair and a severe expression began "On behalf of our clients, we're here to commence the negotiations for-" "Just a sec, ma'am" interrupted Fielders, the man stepping forward with a glint of iron in his suddenly very dark and cold eyes "Lemme lay something out first. We're through with the hackjobs and verbal contracts, nobody's leaving this room until my crew has something solid. And this guy," he gestured at Joe, waving him forward "is gonna mediate, he's here to make sure this is done right. His name's Joe, and he's like me but younger, with his life more together. But by all means," he spread his hands and smiled disarmingly, the blazing lights illuminating every white scar that lined his head, "continue."

Blinking in surprise, the woman who'd spoken first glanced at her compatriot, who shrugged in mute empathy. "Very well, Mr. Fielders, Mr...Joe. We're here as representatives of our clients, the entrepreneurs Desmond Lettam and Bradley Raymond to negotiate a contract with your security company. I cannot say I blame your choice of words there, Mr. Fielders," she added gravely, putting on half-moon spectacles as she drew out a slim packet of legal documents from a briefcase "nobody likes the word 'henchman' these days."


A rumble of sage agreements spread through the crowded room.

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And there it was. The word that Joe had thought he was going to hear, but was hoping he wouldn't. "Henchmen." That kind of word had a very specific implication these days, and it was the kind with a whole lot of criminal codes behind it. He racked his mind, just considering the ramifications of all of this. There'd been a number of cases where unions had been targeted for criminal association - a number of them justified - but none where an institution that outright acted as parties to illegal activities strove to unionize. Mobsters might see protection opportunities in organized labor, but that didn't mean there was a Goombas Local 32.


He turned to the lawyers for the other side. "If I could have a moment to discuss matters with my associate..." He grabbed the other Joe by the arm and led him away, desperately fighting the urge to fling him across the room. "You didn't tell me your business was henching," he whispered. "Might have been nice to know." 

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"That's 'cause it's not" retorted Joe, an eyebrow twitching "not anymore. Henching's a thing of the past, going the way of bright jumpsuit uniforms and gettin' called "MINION" all the damned time. Me and my crew are going to change things, Joe, and for the better, no more desperate people being shoved around by stronger people who basically don't have a soul, no more working conditions that'd make anyone not suicidal have second thoughts!"


His voice dropped and for a moment he looked genuinely sheepish "Look, I'm sorry I didn't say we worked security for super-criminals, but I knew you'd just say 'Hell no' and probably deck me. We need this, and you. And I need an unbroken jaw. See...it's kinda complicated."


"We don't protect our clients from superheroes, if they get wind of the boss we cut right out, most we give is a warning for the really good ones, the kind that appreciate what we do protect 'em from: other supervillains. You know how hard it is to keep a secret lab going in this city? Most last a few months at best before something happens, and weirdos like Lettam and Mist know it, and they know my boys and girls can keep 'em safe when something does go down."


He raised his powerful hands in a placating gesture, eyes grim "Most 'henchman' are exactly what you'd expect them t'be, Joe. Untrained, stupid or pitiably ignorant. And so long as the markets full of people willing to do whatever for quick cash like supers promise, it's gonna stay a problem. With professionals like me and my crew, we can at least make sure scum like that don't get their hands on anything like what the bosses brew up." Fielders shrugged "If you want out, I won't try and stop you. But please, Joe, I can't do this alone."

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Joe tossed the concept around in his head some more. The other Joe was coming at this from, if you squinted, a position of compassion. A lot of these guys were happy to find work where they could, and it was usually either physical labor or assembly line work. You didn't exactly get the idea that you were building killer robots when you were at the front of the line, screwing together a ball joint that might form a leg. But he'd been in the game long enough that he could identify the kind of guys likely to hire henchmen - which meant he'd likely have some idea what they were doing. They were colluding in criminal acts, and past a certain point, they had to know that.

And yet... and yet. If there was anyone likely to abuse labor, it'd be a supercriminal. These guys might have been breaking the law, but there was no need for them to get treated like crap in the process. It wasn't like they were asking for longer smoke breaks - they were asking not to get treated like garbage. Or, judging by the account, live fire exercise targets.

Joe sighed. He could tell himself he was plugging a wound, get drunk tonight, and content himself with the thought that these guys would at least have a less crap time before he had to bust up their operation and throw them in jail. "All right," he said. "Let's see if we can hammer something out here."

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An unexpected answer, if Fielders' brief stare meant anything "Really? You...you mean it?" he asked, a relieved grin spreading over his face "Thanks, Joe. Not a lotta guys who'd do this."


Coming back to room's center Joe gave the two lawyers a flash of his teeth before settling down, waiting until Macayle had followed suit before making a quick nod in his direction and sliding a copy of the papers over to him. Parting two seemingly random leaves for a second he tapped the sections headed 'Liability' and 'Forewarning' with a certain emphasis.


"Now that that little matter has been concluded," the middle-aged woman began carefully, watching the pair with hawklike eyes for any sign of what had just happened, "let us proceed. First item on the agenda Mr. Fielders wishes to bring up is a guaranteed rate of pay..." "As in we won't put up with spurts and stops depending on the weather." "I see. Anyway, according to this breakdown here..."


Three and four quarter hours later


"...That's all well and good, Mr. Fielders, and I commend your dedication to your staff," said the older-looking one, whose name turned out to be Heathbridge, with a kindly smile "but I assure you, these are supervillains. Dangerous, unpredictable, careless. We are in peril as much as you(no need for that look) and can hardly be expected to bring this ungodly mass of demands before Messers. Lettam and Bradley even on a good day. To say nothing of how they get in prison."


The 'ungodly mass of demands' was about as thick as Joe's fist(either of them, really, though Fielders' had less meat yet slightly bigger bones and thus cheated) and covered just about every aspect of henchman care and outfitting you cared to name. Some of them, like injections against villainous super-venoms, were downright mundane, while the article detailing the question of what happened when an employee was erased from history, and where his pay went(Fielders stood fast to it NOT going back to the employer) had thirty-one pages of footnotes and clarifying notes so crammed with jargon and shorthand that even sharp-as-a-whip Ophain(the younger and more energetic lawyer with a perpetual scowl) finally gave up and let them move on. It was a good thing everyone at the table was comfortable and coherent talking at machine-gun speed, and that the typewriter someone found stashed under a desk still had ink in it. The typos alone would have been devastating otherwise.


"And I'll say again," retorted Joe, his scars pink and jaw tight with frustration "that everything here won't change that essential fact: that we'll still work for them if they can meet these requests, besides, nobody else would take this sort of chance. They want loyalty? They got it, and that's this right here!" he slammed his fist with a bang on the pages clustered around the table center "Not sycophancy, not cowardice, not greed. Loyalty. They're fair to us and we're fair to them, simple as that."


Heathbridge and Ophain glanced at each other, neither looking overly encouraged. Pursing her lips a little tighter than usual, Ophain turned her soulless grey eyes to Macayle "Your thoughts, mediator?"

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Joe looked over the endless pile of clauses, subclauses, term sheets, appendices, etc, blah de blah. He was no lawyer - hell, he wasn't even the local's steward. But he at least knew enough about the code to know when he wasn't being forced over a barrel and having rude things done to him. And, as far as he could tell, everything here looked up to snuff. There were enough protections, safety regulations, and benefits to allow for a somewhat comfortable life for the henchmen. Maybe a bit too comfortable to convince henchmen that it might be better to go legit, but... that might have just been his perception. And that would be a bridge to cross for another time.

"For the most part, this passes the smell test with me," he said. "I think we should go back over the bit on proprietary rights to 'potential remains' of anyone who gains powers from an industrial accident, though..."

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"I think we should go back over the bit on proprietary rights to 'potential remains' of anyone who gains powers from an industrial accident, though..."

Both Heathbridge and Ophain gave an involuntary shiver, but the older woman managed a gracious smile bright and brittle as a wineglass and turned to the relevant section, dislodging roughly a third of the paper pile to get there.


"Yes, I believe there was some debate over this article particularly..."




Ophain took a swig of coffee, rubbing a sleep eye with the heel of her palm "I and my colleague," she nudged Heathbridge gently to get her to wake up a bit "cannot guarantee the full implementation of your offered terms, Mr. Fielders. Our clients will pare it down as much as they can. But you and Mr...Joe, have made your case, and despite some misgivings we tentatively agree to some of your broader points. We'll make this," an attempt to tap the pile of slightly rumpled paper turned into a stretch and nearly sent the whole thing crashing down "into a slimmer program that still addresses the key requests, and do our best to talk to Mr. Raymond about that settlement. beyond that, we can't promise anything."


"Oh, that's fair," agreed Joe Fielders, the scarred man still alert and smiling after hours at the table "the biggest thing was just getting this out in the open, I'll trust you to do your job, and to let them know we'll do ours. Thanks for your time, Mz. Heathbridge, Mz. Ophain" rising he shook their hands with considerable delicacy "Good night to both of you."


The room soon cleared, Fielders' company filing out the door after a few minutes waiting for the lawyers to take their leave, their job as silent muscle now over as they chatted and laughed downstairs and out of the building. Soon it was just the two Joes.


With a deep sigh Fielders ran a hand through his short, wiry hair, looking out the window at Southside slowly turning from black to gray. Suddenly he turned back to the other man "Thanks Joe. For all your help." he said quietly "Half that stuff went straight over my head, wouldn't have gotten, well, any of what I want for my crew without you." He smiled awkwardly "I owe you one. Not something I really like, but eh," he shrugged "not like our paths are that likely to cross again, right? Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta get back home and give a good man some good news. Best of luck to ya!"


With that, a fervent handshake and a wave over his shoulder, Fielders vanished into his car and the urban labyrinth of Freedom City, his and many others'  futures just a little bit brighter.

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  • 2 weeks later...

Joe walked away from the warehouse, which had been broken down and cleaned out with all the precision of a military operation. By the time it was done, there was no sign anything had happened here. He walked away, hands in the pockets of his flight jacket, hoping that he'd done some good. That contract looked ironclad - to the point that anything involving supervillains could be "properly" enforced - and the guy who knew the field had walked away from the table happy. This wasn't really any different from any of the negotiations he'd sat in on, unless you counted the fact that it was kind of illegal. And yet...

There it was again. And yet. He couldn't help but feel what happened here wouldn't just end here. Like in any labor movement, word would get out - henchmen in other cities might unionize. And if the jerk from last night was any indicator, the guys who hired henchmen might break out their own legbreakers, ones who likely wouldn't stop at legs. And then there's what might happen to him if anyone else found out he was here, or what kind of blow labor might take if any pundits found out crooks were organizing...

He shook his head. All he could do was see what came of it. If it spilled over, he'd take care of it in time. Still, maybe it'd do good to get out on the street tonight...

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