Unable to sleep, he spent the night in a daze, watching video after video of not-that-funny sketch comedy, followed by about a dozen or so of people engaged in something that had been dubbed, the earwig challenge.

Morning came.

Bleary-eyed, he brewed some coffee. He drank it mirthlessly, dreading the day that was to come. After that, he spent more than an hour rushing in and out of the toilet, finding, paradoxically, that he was both constipated and diarrheal at once — a truly grim situation to be sure — and whilst in the throes of these explosive, red-faced grunt-sessions, each of which he hoped would be the last, he couldn't help but think that, more than ever, it was his solemn duty to do something — anything — to reset the imbalance of the game that he, like so many others, had been pressed into playing.

In the absence of something better to do, he opted to remain close to the bathroom, where he dicked around for a few more hours, cranking Luckies and drinking chicory-coffee to pass the time leading up to a meeting he didn't want to attend, until the time came for him to tie up the recovered paintings depicting eighteenth-century warships, and take a hired car downtown.

Reuben was there to meet him at reception. Together, they cut a path through the bullpens of workers on their way to his office. Mimmeo held out the bundle of canvases without letting go, as proof he'd done what he'd been asked.

"Was it faked?"

"Was what faked?" he asked, sounding offended. "I absolutely trashed her place. If I was supposed to have faked it, I guess I didn't get the fucking memo."

"No, not last night," he replied. "That one was just fine. I'm talking about Anton's," Reuben said, still a little short of breath from the walk.

"You fuckin' kidding me?" he asked, doing his best to seem offended. "I guess I get why you'd ask — I mean, after the whole Thom and Rose thing — but, I told you about that straightaway. But, Anton? Nah. Dude was just weird. And you heard him yourself. He got tipped off by someone here. Not me. I had nothing to do with any of that."

"Alright," he replied, "and that's exactly what I told Sybil. I just needed to hear it from you, is all."

"Damn. I mean, Rube? Come on. I've been straight with you this whole time. You know that. I may have bent the rules a little here-and-there, but I know what's at stake — for both of us, you know? And I'll be the last person to fuck that up. Fuck. You think I want to go to prison?"

Reuben nodded along as Mimmeo continued.

"Hell, I got these," he said, thrusting the paintings toward him again. "Right? Things cost me a fucking fortune to track down again. The fuck would I bother for if I wasn't on the team? Huh? Think about it. No. Dude was just a weirdo, that's all," he said. "Food was good, though. I'll give him that," he said, perking up as he met Reuben's gaze. "Man can cook."

The two of them laughed a little, and Reuben wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

"Fair enough, buddy. And everyone really liked the way you handled the Webb job. Like I said, I just needed to make sure before we go into the lions' den," he said. "Speaking of which, you ready?"

He nodded that he was.

"Lead the way, Rube."

They left his office and headed down the hall side by side.

"I'm really hoping they've got something catered-in for lunch," Reuben said in a low voice, standing outside the conference room door. "I'm absolutely starving."

"I could eat," he agreed.

Reuben pushed the door wide, holding it open for Mimmeo, who entered the room, surveying the faces of the executives seated around the table. He marched over to Sybil, who was standing in the back of the room, and who'd been quietly scrutinizing his every move. Releasing the roll of canvasses from the crook of his arm, he tipped them her direction.

"Heard you were after these," he said, giving her a sly side-eye before claiming a nearby seat for himself.

Absently, she tossed them onto an empty chair without so much as a glance, then started in on him immediately.

"Did you think we wouldn't notice?" she asked sharply.

Mim sucked in his chin and arched backward, looking around the room as if he were attempting to ascertain the intended recipient of her question. Sybil made herself clear.

"Why did you warn Anton you were coming?"

"This again? Come on, come off it. You heard him yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you've got a mole problem here."

"So you didn't warn him? Didn't coach him in advance. Didn't have him stash his docs somewhere safe before you showed up?"

"Fuck no," he said, putting on an air of perturbation that she'd even ask. "Why would I? I'm an independent contractor. Shit. I don't know the guy. But, you know what? It sure sounded like someone in adverts does. So you might just want to check your own shit before you have a go at me, but, hey — that's none of my business."

She bought it. They all did.

"Either way," she relented, "whatever you're doing seems to be working."

Felicia couldn't stop herself from chiming in.

"Our ratings are up with every target demo, and we've got advertisers lining up to sponsor."

"As I was saying," Sybil said, reclaiming the floor, "we're pleased with the way things are going at present — quite so, in fact. The show's got a dedicated following, and it's bringing in new viewers with each new episode we release. People really seem to be responding quite favourably to you."

"They're hooked," he heard Reuben shout from across the room.

"And, we hope," she continued, looking at a ratings chart, projected on the conference room wall, "that the one with Mister Ferguson, unorthodox as it may be, will prove no different."

"I do what I can with what I've got," Mimmeo replied, reaching for an empty glass at the center of the table.

Mimmeo stood, maneuvering over to the liquor shelf in the corner, where he poured himself a heavy slug from the nearest thing at-hand, which happened to be a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin.

"Anyone else?"

No answer.

"Just me?" he asked the room. "Well, don't mind if I do."

Sybil waited until he was back in his seat before proceeding.

"With all this in mind, I've authorized finance to increase your rate per episode, and since you returned the paintings, I'll see to it you're given a one time bonus after this meeting."

"Thanks very much," he said, tilting what was left in his glass in her direction.

"You've shown yourself to be a valuable member of the Cyberpix team, and we always like to reward that."

"Hey, I told Reuben, my will is but to serve," he said, cautious to moderate his tone so as not to overplay his hand too much. "Didn't I, Rube?"

"You sure did, buddy."

"Alright," Sybil began again. "Before we start patting ourselves on the back too much, we need to address our most pressing concern, which, at the moment is the fact that we don't have a target for tonight's episode."

Mimmeo straightened up in his seat, preparing himself for what was to come.

"We've all talked it over, and the general consensus is that Veronica Smythe is the most logical choice for the last episode leading into the finale."

At first he thought she was going to say something more, but when it became apparent that she was pausing to gauge his reaction, he leaned forward and nodded along in agreement.

"No objections to that?"

Mimmeo shrugged.

"I'm glad to see you've had a change of heart," she said, "because it was my understanding, after what you did — making the unilateral decision to strike her from the list — that you were on her side, conducting yourself out of some misplaced sense of moral principle."

He opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled when Reuben pushed himself to stand, coming to his defense.

"We've talked about it since, and he's come around to seeing things our way," he blurted, "he—"

"Is that so?" Sybil interrupted, adding a sharp, but satisfied hmm.

Mim played along that they'd in fact had such a conversation, pointing to the various pay rises as reason enough to go along.

"I must say, I admire your mercenary inclinations," Sybil said, her eyebrows raised in a kind of delighted approval. "It seems as though you might just fit in here, after all. Moreover, I think we can now go ahead with our talks for a second season."

He looked around the table to see a group of plastic faces smiling and nodding back at him. A few of them were even applauding lightly.

"Love it," he said, leaning back in his chair, rocking back and forth a few times, appearing perfectly chuffed with this newfound favour from the studio execs.

Reuben slapped his hands together, sending a single percussive blast resonating against the eggshell-hued walls.

"Yes! That's what I'm talking about, folks!" he bellowed.

"Enthusiasm," Sybil said, pausing for effect, "is definitely something we've been lacking for some time around here. But, with that said — and as much as we'd all like to see Ms. Smythe in a future episode — there's been a surprise development overnight, something which calls for us to act quickly."

It was like someone had let the air out of an overfilled balloon. The mood in the room grew icy, as everyone held their breath, waiting for whatever news was about to be dropped on them.

"Last night," Sybil started out, "or more precisely, very early this morning, our servers were breached by a hacker."

"How's that possible?" asked one of the suits.

"While we're still running forensics on the full details of the attack, what I can tell you, is that at three-seventeen a.m. this morning, someone altered the load-screen logo and removed several of our top-grossing titles from the catalog — Indigo Nights, and the entire Street Sweeper series among them — replacing them with a string of crudely-edited propaganda videos. Fortunately for us, the perpetrator left a calling card: their hacker alias, accompanied by an image of an animal skull. Unfortunately, as we recently migrated all of the studio's data to these servers, it may be some time before we're able to track down the original video files, and so — for the time being — we won't be able to re-upload the missing titles."

"Any idea who did it?" someone asked.

"As I said, the investigation has only just begun," answered Sybil, "but, I'm told, based on the exploits used, that the attack was likely carried out by someone with intimate knowledge of our server architecture. As such, all signs point to this being the work of one of our Cogent contractors."

"What does this mean for our clients?" Felicia piped up, looking more than nervous.

"You and I should speak after this to craft our messaging. We'll work on the finer points together, but it will be absolutely critical that we avoid mentioning that the attack came from within. And let me be clear, no one — and I mean no one — outside of this room is to know about this. If the press were to catch wind that we're battling our own people for control of our properties, our content and advertising partners would all head for the hills. We'd be ruined. Is this understood?"

Everyone agreed.

Silence descended upon the room, until Hal, rubbing his temples with the tip of a rubber stylus, at last looked up and asked, "Are you really saying this was someone who works here who did this?"

"I don't want to speculate any further until we're absolutely sure of the culprit," she answered. "But, yes. It looks that way now."

"But— but, who would do that?" someone wondered out loud.

"I don't know. I really don't know," said Sybil. "Disturbing as it may be, we now have to come to terms with the very real possibility that every one of us, with the exception of you, of course," she said, looking directly at Mimmeo, "has rubbed shoulders with the culprit in this very office at some point in the not-so-distant past."

"Surely you must have some idea—" said Hal.

She sighed, then swiped at her wrist looking for something, found it.

"All we know is that this person knew our system better than any of our own engineers, and that they go by Quirk, spelled kay-double-yu-three-ar-kay. They even left a signed note— to taunt us."

There was an exchange of quizzical looks, followed by shrugs and a lot of raised eyebrows, but no one said a word.

"There's not much anyone here can do about at the moment. Our team is diverting all their efforts to fixing what we can, and I remain hopeful we'll be able to find backups of all the files she took from us before long," Sybil said, doing her best to rally the troops.

"She?" asked Hal. "So you do have a lead?"

"It's too soon to say," she said, unable to avoid telegraphing the fact she'd said too much. She looked away for a beat, exhaled through her nose, then turned to him. "Hal, you know me. This isn't the first crisis we've had to deal with here, and I believe you know I've always seen us through to the other side of things. We're going to get to the bottom of this. But, right now," she said, "I just need you to focus on your own department. All of you. So, let me handle this."

Again, she looked at Mimmeo.

"For now, the last thing I'll say about the matter is to bring us back around to where I began. Veronica Smythe can wait. I'm certain we'll know the identity of the attacker very soon, and I need tonight's episode to be a show of force," she said. "Reuben?"

He'd been staring at something on his bracelet, but looked up when he heard his name called.

"Hungh?"

"I need you to be in constant contact with me today. I'll be liaising with the engineering team, and the moment we have something, you're to get it to Mimmeo, you understand."

"You got it, boss," he said, his tone falling just shy of obsequious.

"Whoever did this just became the star of episode eight."

This declaration elicited a battery of cheerful rumblings from every corner of the room, and then Sybil dismissed every one of the execs, reiterating once more that they were all to keep their damned mouths shut, and when her team had all shuffled their way out, each of them slumping back to their respective departments, she called out for Mimmeo to stay behind.

"What's up?" he asked, ducking back into the conference room.

"Come back. And shut the door."

***

"Everything okay?"

Mimmeo about jumped out of his skin.

"Jesus, Reuben. You tryin' to kill me?"

"Sorry, man. I hung back to make sure the iron lady didn't hold you hostage forever."

"Nah, it wasn't like that. She just wanted to brief me a little on tonight. Had some pretty specific ideas about how she wants things to go down, is all. No big deal."

"Yeah. Crazy stuff, huh? But, hey— what'd I tell you?"

Mimmeo looked away without answering, which Reuben interpreted as another aw shucks.

"You were amazing in there. It's about damn time you came around!" he shouted, and if Mimmeo'd been wearing dentures, the slap on his back would have knocked them straight to the floor.

"Oh, uh, yeah," he stammered, forcing a tight-lipped grin across his face.

"I'm serious. I can't tell you how happy— no, how goddamn proud I am of you. Of us. We are gonna make so much goddamn money together. You know that? I'm back!" he looked down at his feet, shaking his head. Then, taking Mimmeo by the shoulders, exclaimed "Holy shit! I'm back. I'm fuckin' back, man!"

"Sure seems that way, doesn't it?" he said, attempting enthusiasm.

"Lunch? Come on, let's celebrate. Drinks on me?"

"Some other time, Rube. We're definitely gonna celebrate. But right now," he pointed to his wrist, "right now, I gotta call my girl. Rain check?"

"No, man. I mean, yeah— you're good. You're a hero. Fuck, you really are Robin Hood! Never had any doubts. You're fuckin' Robin Hood, and I couldn't be happier to be your very own fat-ass Friar Tuck," he said, chuckling through a pink wad of gum that was bouncing round in his open mouth. "We'll catch up soon, buddy. Seriously. Drinks on me. You really saved my ass. You have some idea, but—"

"It's cool, Rube. It's cool," he responded, waving his palms toward the floor. "And... if I'm honest — even though you roped me into all this — it's been good for me, too. We're cool, man. Alright?"

Reuben shouted after him as he was rounding the corner back to reception.

"You're a legend, Mim!" he yelled, "...a fucking legend!"

***

As soon as he was outside The Pyramid he rang Sophia, who agreed to meet him for lunch at their usual spot.

"I'll have your spring rolls waiting for you," he said, a lilting jauntiness in his words.

"And beer," she replied. "I'm gonna need beer."

"Shoot," he said, drawing out the vowels for effect. "Who do think I am? You know I always make sure to order plenty of—"

Sophia could hear angry shouting in the background. It sounded like a bunch of kids.

"Mim? You still there?"

Nothing.

"Mim?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Is everything—"

He cut her off, "Yeah— everything's okay," he assured her. "Hey, uh, I'll see you when you get here, okay? I gotta go."

"What's going on?"

"Spring rolls, and beer," he said, "I'll see you soon, okay, Soph?" then tapped his wrist, ending the call.

Half a block away, there was a scuffle going down. A man in a business suit and dark sunglasses was laying into a couple of street kids, yelling at the top of his lungs in a way Mimmeo had often seen in interactions like this, which he knew to be fear, disguised as anger. He saw the suit take a clumsy swing at the smaller of the two kids, and failing to connect, was promptly knocked to the pavement by the other. A few seconds later, the two kids were jetting away on a knock-off Vespa, and as they passed by him, Mimmeo could see the wide grins plastered across their faces.

Now leaning against a utility pole, he watched as they turned down the alley directly behind him, then back at the suit, who was patting at his pockets, fixing his clothes as he stumbled into a weak jog. He only made it about a dozen steps in pursuit of them, before he stopped, doubling over and gasping for breath as he yelled after them.

Realizing they were long gone, the man in the suit threw his hands up. Then, looking directly at Mimmeo, hollered, "You saw that, right?"

"Huh?" he answered, a bemused look on his face.

"You saw that. Those punks just took my," he said, patting his pockets, "my Malum, my wallet. Shit. Fuckers even got my wedding ring, for fuck's sake."

"Oh? Something happen?" Mimmeo replied. "You should probably file a report."

"Believe me, I will!" the man said, "And you were a witness, so—"

Mim cut him off.

"No. Not really. I wasn't really paying attention."

"Yeah, but you saw them skirt off," he said, then, sounding desperate and angry all at once, he asked, "Didn't you?"

"Nah," Mimmeo answered, looking back at something on his own bracelet. "Sorry, mate."

"But... but..." he was growing more indignant. "Fuck. Fuck! Fuck this city! And, fuck you, man!"

The guy stormed off.

As soon as his back was to him, Mimmeo turned round, and began walking in the direction of the two thieves. Rounding the corner, he could see they were still there, about halfway down the alley, crouched over a pile of gadgets and jewelry that lay scattered across a piece of damp cardboard. There, they were sharing a spliff that was wide as a grown man's finger, and just as long, and they were engaged in what appeared to be the process of splitting up the morning's take.

The smaller of the two, a kid — maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing an eye-patch over his left eye — had said something to make his friend laugh. Muscular, and much larger, but probably about the same age as his partner, he issued a deep and guttural laugh, a whole-mouth cackle which emanated from deep in his belly, and which showed all his teeth, many of which were capped in gold.

Wishing to seem as anodyne as possible, he made a show of lighting up a cigarette, then, padded gently in their direction, keeping his hands empty, and holding them in such a way they were clearly visible.

"Ay-yo," eye-patch said to his friend, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow, pointing the glowing tip of the joint at the approaching interloper.

Mimmeo took a long drag off his smoke, holding up his free hand in a gesture he hoped would signal his friendly intent.

"What's up?" was the kid's reply, and again eye-patch pointed at Mimmeo.

Seeing him, gold-tooth quickly gathered his share into a loose pile and stood up, shouting out a warning.

"Better get the fuck back, bruh..."

Undeterred, Mim stepped past him, and leaning down, he picked up a handful of the spoils. He looked them over, before setting them back down in the piles where he'd found them.

"Yo! The fuck you doin'?" eye-patch asked, shoving Mim hard against the shoulder.

Mimmeo stood back up, finished his smoke, and flicked what was left of it to the side.

"Who the fuck are you?" gold-tooth asked, looking Mimmeo over.

"Just an admirer," he answered.

"Oh yeah?" gold-tooth said, gritting his jaws tight, bones bulging beneath his face.

He nodded.

"Saw you back there with the suit," Mimmeo said, pulling another Lucky from the pack.

"Oh, yeah?" gold-tooth asked.

For the time being, Mim remained silent.

"Listen, old man," gold-tooth growled, "you didn't see shit, you got me?" The kid slipped his hand into his jacket and grabbed hold of something, all the while staring straight through Mimmeo's skull. Then, focusing his gaze, he said in a low, rumbling voice, "You best get the fuck outta here, man, before you get clapped."

"Yeah," eye-patch agreed, emboldened by his partner's tough talk. "Bounce, bitch!"

Mimmeo closed his eyes, forcing a breathy chuckle through his nose. At this, gold-tooth took a step forward and produced the pistol he'd been fiddling with inside his jacket, and seeing this, eye-patch, pulled a stubby flick-knife from his back pocket.

The kid racked the slide, and jamming the gun into Mimmeo's face, lifted his chin and pulled his lips back.

"Gimme your shit," he said.

Skipping over it entirely, Mimmeo pulled his head back a few inches to get a better look at the pistol.

"That a three-sixty-five?" he said, craning his neck to one side.

"Yee," gold-tooth replied, a hint of boyish pride breaking through, before he quickly snapped back into angry bravado. Jerking his head behind the sights, he barked, "The fuck it matter? Gun a gun."

"Agh. Not so," Mimmeo reacted, taking a drag, and waving his palm back and forth a few times. "What you've got there — that Sig — that's a nice piece. Now," he went on, "personally, I'm a Beretta man, myself, but—"

"Yo, you best get to emptyin' them pockets, bruh," gold-tooth said, something which eye-patch echoed pretty much word for word.

"Can I see it?" Mimmeo asked, still ignoring their threats.

"The fuck you just say?"

"The gun," he said, as if handing it over to him was the most logical thing in the world. "Can I see it?"

A quizzical look shot across gold-tooth's face as he tried to make sense of what was taking place.

"Bruh, you better shut the fuck up, or I'mma let my partner here cutchya up."

"You know, I've been curious to try one out," he continued. "Never seen one up close before."

He could see he was getting nowhere, and so he reached behind his back and pulled his own pistol from his waistband. For this, both the kids started in shouting. Dropping his knife in fear, eye-patch scurried back about five paces, and for his part, gold-tooth pumped his elbow, thrusting his gun in Mimmeo's direction.

"Look, I'm not gonna shoot you," Mimmeo said, as nonchalantly as if their weapons were toys. Then, offering gold-tooth his Beretta, butt first, he motioned for the kid to hand over his in trade. "Come on, it's not gonna bite. Crook to crook, let's have a little professional courtesy for one another, yeah?"

A moment went by, with gold-tooth and eye-patch passing bewildered looks back and forth, before gold-tooth at last shrugged, and letting his shoulders droop, exchanged guns with the stranger.

"Yeah," Mimmeo said, nodding as he examined the kid's pistol, "This is a nice piece. Got the twelve-round mag on it, tritium sights. And light, too," he said, holding it flat on his palm. "Way lighter than that hammer of mine."

Still coming to terms with the strange turn of events, all gold-tooth and eye-patch could do was stare.

"You guys seem pretty good," he said, tipping his forehead toward the two piles of loot. "At least, if that's any indication of what you're capable of in a given morning."

"We been known to get around," gold-tooth said, finally breaking his silence.

"We got skills, ya heard?" eye-patch, vamping a bit.

"Calm down," Mimmeo said, "You've got the sucker-punch routine down, and you've got a fast bike. Not like you cured cancer."

Eye-patch looked like he wasn't sure how to respond.

"Anyway, I might have a job for you," Mim said. "That is, if you're ever interested in making some real money."

"Bitch, I might be," gold-tooth answered, perking up a little.

They gave each other their guns back, and both put them away.

"Might?" Mimmeo asked.

"You got a Malum?" Mimmeo asked him, "One that's yours, that is."

Gold-tooth turned to eye-patch, and jerked his neck for him to come forward. Mimmeo zipped him a sum, one that was solid enough to elicit loud whooping noises from the pair of cut-purses, then promised to pay at least twice as much if he ever needed to call on them for a job.

"Yo, bruh — you a cop?" eye-patch asked.

"Man, when the last time a cop gave you anything but a tough time? Hannh?" gold-tooth asked his partner. Shiiit. Spot a cop from a mile away. Mans ain't no cop."

The kid bobbed his head side to side a couple times, indicating the argument made sense enough.

"You a weird dude, though," gold-tooth said, turning to Mim, "You know that?"

Mimmeo shrugged as eye-patch tapped his bracelet to his, zipping over a number where they could be reached. Meanwhile, gold-tooth smiled as he checked his balance again. Finally, he looked up, and had the last word.

"But, I ain't mad at it."

***