George yawns, water forming at the corners of his eyes, leaking down the expanse of his cheeks. He wouldn’t say he hated travel, but he would be damned to hell if he said he enjoyed it. Maybe, a few decades back, he’d be over the moon to get a full expense paid trip to California: enjoy the beaches, sample the food, and expand his wardrobe a bit. Nowadays, he preferred staying near the Beta– he was too damn old to do anything nowadays anyway. Sadly, he didn’t really have a choice when it came to meetings between branch leaders

  George plots pleasantly through the streets of the Zeta Branch. The outer city was closer to the Beta’s than the Alpha’s, though hers was larger in almost every way. He and Uriel were quite similar in their disdain for wealth of any kind, though Uriel had done a much better job fighting the board of directors behind the scenes than he. He could go tooth and nail for the betterment of the Initiates he oversaw, but he had to acquiesce in some parts. The wealthy few prefer to develop in the places they know to be safe, especially when they can profit at the same time. No land was easier to develop The Zeta’s wealth manifested in grand works, churches sprawling across every street corner. The roads are laid with brick, purposely replacing the asphalt that once laid heavy on the floor. The buildings don't quite spire like they do in the Beta, but they certainly snake out far wider than any branch beside Epsilon.

  The city’s span had increased three-fold since being renamed from “San Francisco”, an impressive considering it was the second newest behind the Beta. The other choice was Los Angeles. Nobody spoke about Los Angeles anymore. Not since it was destroyed.

  While it was good Hellfire was growing, the sprawling streets made car travel a pain.

  With a grunt, George pulls his Buggy into a random parking lot– a restaurant that seems to pride itself on its “authentic Korean food”. Very few establishments needed a parking lot in the Zeta, mainly because almost nobody outside the Initiative even had a car. Instead, most used the abundance of street cars that dot the rail system, small trams running people to and fro. That was one of the few points George and her didn’t quite agree on. The damn things were slow, limiting, and had a few set locations they could go to. Completely inefficient compared to the good old car if you asked him. Oil was getting harder to come by, though– especially when demons were getting smarter by the day. Didn’t matter how many benefits you put behind it, nobody would work a field willingly when with the risk of demons swarming the land.

  George primes his old legs as his feet touch the brick floor, allowing each of his muscles to activate one by one. He pushes Synth into them, feeling that familiar swell of strength permeating throughout his body. With a solid exertion of power, he jumps up, easily cresting even the tallest buildings, the brick splintering beneath him. He scans from the sky as he rockets up, his eyes narrowing as he locks onto his target. There, just in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, stood the beating heart of the Zeta.

  Uriel had told him the island was called “Angel Island” before it was repurposed. He hadn’t been to California in his younger days, so he couldn’t speak to the validity of that claim, but it was most certainly an island for angels now. It shined like gold, buildings sprouting up from its hilly surface, the water surrounding shimmering in its ethereal glow. Though it was the technical home base, much of the actual Zeta’s true branch stood on the coast. Only the truly influential members got to step foot on the island proper, another of the few points her and George disagreed on. If they worked for him, they damn well deserved to work in the same building as him, even if a whole lot of them were brats. They just needed a tall building… And maybe some stairs. He loved a good set of stairs.

  George lands hard, cracks spidering across the brick road with the force of his descent. His legs tense once more. With another light exertion, he rockets through the air at an arc, a missile on a crash course to the Zeta.

  After a few seconds, he slams into the dirt of the Zeta’s heart, grass and dirt rocketing up like confetti with his arrival. He wipes himself off quickly, adjusting the sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. They splinter to pieces as soon as his fingers make contact. He sighs, scooping the shattered pieces into his pockets.

  With quick steps, he treks up the path, passing by many of the brutalist buildings that dust the surface of the island. They’re fairly small, only a few stories in height. Not many people used them; in fact, quite a few were used for the sole purposes of meetings like these.

  After a moment, George finally finds the correct building near the peak of the hilly island. A small ID locked door stands as the only obstacle, one easily cleared with a single flex of his Synth Aura. He remembered when they invented these suckers. They’re impressive pieces of tech, even now.

  The inside was wider than it was long, a circular table embedded in the floor. Small succulents hang from the concrete ceiling, the room sparsely decorated to give it a more “homely” look. The chairs were cushioned pleasantly, though the massive metal rods that ran through it in the vain attempt to bolster its stability belied its true reinforced nature. Most of the attending members already seemed to be here, Uriel and Samson the lefthand side of the table, Gunter occupying the righthand side. Gunter turns his attention to George. He wore a large gas mask, a thick padded jacket running down the expanse of his body. To call him large would be demeaning to Gunter. The ripped bastard was nearly the size of a polar bear on their hind legs, most of his mass accumulating near his massive arms. Though Micah was the strongest out of all of them, George reckoned Gunter might give the bastard a run for his money in the brute strength department.

  “Took you long enough.” Gunter calls, his muffled voice laced with annoyance. “These two’ve been ganging up on me.”

  George exhales a laugh through his nose, settling down in the closest chair to him. “I’m old, Gunter. I can’t go as fast as you youngins.”

  “Samson nears your age, yet he managed to remain punctual.” Uriel pipes up, her face remaining neutral. George shoots her a wide grin, a rasping chuckle tearing its way from his throat.

  “Samson’s a youngin at heart. Ain’t that right, Sammy boy?”

  Samson keeps his face as neutral as Uriel’s, though George could see that frown creeping up at the edges of his lips. The man never changes, always so uptight about simple jokes. Maybe that was the reason George loved messing with him, or maybe it was because the two were a few of the only ones of their generation.

  “Perhaps we should get to the important business instead of joking around like small children, hm?” Samson says, his tone that of a consummate professional.

  “Fine, fine.” George acquiesces, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m assuming Micah ain’t joining us today.”

  “Who could’ve guessed.” Gunter mutters, his bulky arms crossing over his chest.

  “I believe he’s dealing with outbreaks of rogue demons near Africa at the request of our allies.” Uriel says.

  “And that’ll take him what? One day?” Gunter sighs, his large fingers drumming against his impressive bicep. “He’s a part of Group A, so he should be here!”

  “I’m not a part of Group A.” George interjects. “Does that mean I can go?”

  “You are a retired member, and the leader of a branch.” Samson says, shooting down the proposition before it can gain any steam, even jokingly.

  “He’s closer to us than Micah.” Gunter sighs. “Just put the geezer on our team and let Micah be in his own category or somethin’.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Hell if I’m joining a team.” George interjects before Samson can retort. “I served my time. Just makin’ sure the kiddos of tomorrow are ready to deal with the job too.”

  Gunter shakes his head in response, his heavy foot tapping on the floor impatiently. “Can we speed this up? I could be fighting demons instead of this useless meeting crap.”

  “I’m sure today's content will be lighter than usual given the state of Hellfire.” Uriel says. “If not for you and George slowing us down, I’m sure we would be done by now.”

  Gunter rolls his eyes, kicking his feet up to the table, much to the chagrin of Uriel. The chair creaks under his considerable weight, metal popping like bubble wrap to keep from breaking under the strain.

  “Right.” Samson reaches into his robes with a poignant glance toward Gunter. After a moment, his shining digits produce a paper, his eyes squinting as he reads it over. “First point of business. Missions. How many have you personally completed this year?”

  “Eight.” Gunter pipes up first, practically radiating pride.

  “Five.” Uriel says next, her expression demure. “Though I have a few projects that may count as missions within their own right.”

  “None.” George pipes up last, a smile growing across his face. Samson audibly sighs, his hand running across the expanse of his thinning hair. Only in these moments did the old coot finally show a bit of that age he tried so hard to hide. It made George smile knowing he was one of the few who could coax that out of him.

  “George,” Samson starts, his tone straddling a disappointed growl. “While you aren’t required to do missions as a technical retiree, we would prefer if you did at least one to keep up appearances.”

  “You didn’t do any either.” George snipes. Samson furrows his brows, his hands tightening on the paper for a moment. George rolls his eyes, kicking his own feet on the table. “What? I like to stay in the loop too.”

  “Right.” Samson scrawls on the page with a pen, the sound of scratching filling the now silent room. Uriel looks to George through the side of her eye, one George returns with a questioning one of his own. Typically, she would take a seat next to him, that or she’d wait till he got here to take her seat. She simply shakes her head before turning her gaze forward.

  Samson clears his throat, his eyes still glued to the paper. “Have you had any breakthroughs?” His eyes scan the group. This question was more rhetorical than anything. If someone were to have a breakthrough, everyone and their mothers would’ve known by now. Still, it was on the page, so it was a question he had to ask.

  “No.” Gunter says, his voice unabashed.

  “Not at the current moment, no.” Uriel mutters.

  “Not even a bit.” George says.

  “Base Epsilon hasn’t either.” Samson slowly scratches on the paper once more. “I expected as much, though I can’t say I’m any less disappointed.” His eyes re-scan the page, visibly jumping over a category to the next. “That leads us to the next point; promising new recruits.”

  The shift in the room was almost palpable, sparks of competition arcing between the four powerhouses. Duels between them were forbidden by nature, as were any for the truly strong. Not only was it a danger to some of Hellfire’s most powerful members, but it was a danger to the planet in its entirety. These kinds of duels, however– ones fought vicariously through others– were fair game, and they were a game played at every meeting.

  “I suppose I shall go first, then.” Uriel says, her mind lost in thought. After a moment, she speaks, a rare note of pride tinging her voice. “I suppose Bao Haiyang may be my most promising. They occupy my first slot of course. Their skill with their meteor hammer is astounding.”

  George whistles, the shrill sound cutting through the silence. “That's a damn good weapon.”

  “Quite.” Uriel responds, the inklings of a prideful smile washing across her features. Even she couldn’t escape the throws of ego.

  “I got one.” Gunter calls out first, his voice awash with ego. “Ava Toivonen's 'er name. She scored number three on Delta’s testing, and she’s a beast with her weapon. She's already a Y teamer, and I think she's headed for an X team promotion any day now!"

  “Interesting.” Samson nods, noting it on his papers before his eyes flit back up to Gunter. “What would that weapon be?”

  “Pair o’ scissors.”

  “Scissors?” Uriel questions, a flicker of amusement flashing before her eyes. “How quaint.”

  Gunter shoots her a glare, his gas mask flapping with his rapid movement. “You know as well as I do that the weapon hardly matters. It’s about the ability and the user.” His gaze dips to her chest, her silver cross dangling above her heart. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Don’t insult the Lord, heathen.” Uriel says coldly, all warmth freezing under her icy tone. Gunter openly stares back, their Aura’s billowing out in droves. They clash in the middle, warping the space around them. George rolls his eyes once more, pushing his own aura out to intercept them. The two turn to stare at him, their animosity now refocused.

  “Calm down, kiddos.” George demands more than anything. “You’re gonna destroy the entire damn branch if you keep this up. Just keep this meeting going so we can all go home and go to bed.”

  Uriel, after a moment of glaring, sighs, bowing her head down just a tad. “My apologies. I did not mean to halt the group.”

  Gunter echoes the sentiment in his own way, his voice more a muttered grumble than anything. That was the best George was going to get, not like he needed apologies. He was getting too old to butt heads with youngin's.

  “Back on track, then.” Samson says, somehow more composed than before the conflict. “My number two, Zane Ekel, has shown great promise. They’ve already unlocked a potent Synth Aura, and I suspect their talents will only grow in the coming days.”

  “An aura already?” George inquires, his hands folding neatly behind his head as he pushes himself further back. The chairs didn’t have a lot of give; luckily, he could make some.

  “Indeed.” Samson comments. “Your Faraji boy has one too, does he not?”

  “That he does. Pretty sure he's goin' for one of the puerile mission's."

  "Already going for M Rank?" Samson blinks. "The Beta is more impressive than I would’ve thought possible for a commerce hub.”

  George’s own smile grows across his weathered face. The old coot was still as backhanded as ever, and a damn liar. They both knew Samson had eyes everywhere.

  “We’re doin' fine." George says. "And I got four others who're damn close too; plus another who's already tapped it.”

  The turning of heads elicits a further smile on George’s face. It made sense, most prospects didn’t choose the Beta as their first choice, if they got a choice at all. It was the newest, and the one with the least technology, much to George’s chagrin. The crop this year, though… To say he lucked out would be like saying dogs had a tendency toward eating meat.

  “Praytell, who are your others?” Uriel questions, her hands re-locking on her lap. He could see that hint of nervous sweat beading on her brow. The girl could hide her emotions like a pro, but George had been around her way too long not to see the small tells she let slip through the cracks. It made sense, he knew the risk she was undertaking to keep her son safe– he shared in it too. Still, it would be suspicious if he didn’t mention what was one of his most promising members, especially with the team they surrounded themselves with. They had picked their friends, sure, but the composition… It was deja vu.

  “Arata Hyoudou is my second, and he’s damn close.” George starts, three fingers raising as he speaks, the ring falling as he says Arata’s name.

  “Isn’t that Hajime’s kid?” Gunter pipes up suddenly, his voice tinged with more interest than before. It made sense, Hajime was nothing short of a legend in the Initiative. George would know. They were teammates after all.

  “Damn right it is.” George says, his middle falling as he continues. “Following him is Arla and Florence. They’re damn near equal, but I'd say Arla's closer. Not by that much, though.”

  “You continue to say ‘close’, but the leap between close and completed is a gap not easily jumped.” Samson interjects, his gold adorned fingers shining as he raises his hand in front of him. “Yet, you say you have another.”

  “I was getting there, brat.” George cackles, letting the suspense grow in the room. Damn did it feel good to have the leg up on these guys. Sure, he didn’t really care if he was the best or not, but the trainees under his care were different, especially the few who actually pushed past the limits set to them by the world. Cruelty and hate abounded, survival triumphing over and sort of camaraderie or teamwork. It was understandable, most people had to look out for themselves, and violence was a language everyone spoke in some fluidity. Looking out for another left you blind to the knife creeping up on your back. He hopes, somewhere in his old heart, that maybe this generation might fix the mistakes his generation made. Maybe…

  “My other recruit to tap that potential,” George finally continues, his thumbs pushing together as one single person comes to mind, a smile creeping up his ancient face. “Goes by the name of Liv Boss."