Somewhere in the lower district of Denver, Colorado is an old tenement building, currently abandoned, but was open for rent. Inside this building, somewhere on the third floor, a Berretta .56 has just spit out a lethally shaped piece of lead and iron at roughly the speed of sound. The general idea is that the lead-and-iron piece of death would, in a very short amount of time, rip through a khaki jacket, cotton shirt, and roughly two inches of skin and bone before lodging itself in the heart of someone who just came to the realization that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Somewhere else in the lower district of Denver, Colorado is a glass sky-scraper, currently home to over a dozen businesses, law firms, and general money makers. Somewhere on the highest floor, a man in a 1200$ suit is overlooking the Front Range from his penthouse window. The man was expecting a phone call from one of his business partners, who would speak with him concerning a business transaction. He was waiting for confirmation that a certain variable had been dealt with and that his project would continue without any further complications.

To understand the relationship or situation of either of these men, you'd have to be familiar with a chain of events which began only a week ago. You'd also have to be familiar with the pharmaceutical company, Aesir.

Besides being a multi-trillion dollar company, with over 800 thousand employees in twelve countries, Aesir set itself aside from the competition by its incredible company policies. Every employee was taken care of. Even the janitors made at least six digits a year and were fully covered for retirement in any community funded by Aesir, which were located globally. All you had to do was ask, and you could spend the second half of your life in Hokkaido, Venice, Tijuana, or any other hotspot you could think of. In the public eye, Aesir was the poster child for corporate accountability. From the eye of a pessimist, anyone involved with Aesir was stuck with them until death. Even then, funeral services were usually covered pro-bono by the deceased's "grateful benefactors". Assuming the burial site was within a certain plot of land owned by a certain company.

Aesir specialized in pharmaceutical technology, but over the years they had gained the resources to start branch companies which specialized in everything from educational tools to military contracts. Thanks to these branches, Aesir thrived on itself. They hired their own janitors, founded their own law firms, set up their own medical offices and even trained their own security. Aesir could start their own country in a heartbeat, and no one would be able to do anything about.

Despite their immense size and influence, Aesir kept itself head quartered where it began. Not in the downtown business district of Los Angeles, or some port district in New York. Instead, they grew in Denver, and city grew around them.

One week earlier...

Chief Detective Adrian "Dodger" Calhoun walked into the city's justice center the same way he had for the past 6 years. This time though, he walked with a new authority. He got the word the previous Friday that the International Security Initiative had recruited him. The International Security Initiative was created among the Allied Nations to monitor super corporations which had grown out of the range of traditional policing. "Super Corporation" was a term which began with the explosive growth of Aesir, but had found a home with numerous other large companies over the past 10 years. The ISI was the only group that could serve justice to economic giants who tried to cover their own corruption. Infiltrating and collecting evidence for a trial (usually served by the United Nations) was an operative's primary goal, but when that didn't work, they were granted the fifth freedom: To end the corruption themselves through any means necessary. Sometimes it meant theft or sabotage. Sometimes it meant killing.

Calhoun got off of an elevator at the third floor and walked to the end of a single hall lined with doors to the offices of his colleagues. When he got to his own office, he was frustrated to find that his keycard was no longer valid. He knocked on the door with the bottom of his fist twice before the door popped open from the inside. Before him stood a short, but buff man in a polo shirt and khaki pants. The man was Blake Arnsedorf, and the last time Calhoun had seen him, he was a Staff Sergeant. It didn't click at first, but after an awkward pause at the door, Arnsedorf said exactly what Calhoun had just figured.

"Hey Calhoun...forget something?" Arnsedorf asked as he scratched the side of his shaved head,

"I...you're in my office." Calhoun replied in a deep, but soft tone. Arnsedorf chuckled a bit, but stopped when he remembered how renowned Calhoun had been for his lack of sense of humor.

"Some suits came in about an hour after you left for the weekend on Friday...moved your stuff to a different floor and dropped me the memo that I'm taking over as Chief of your branch."

"And you didn't find that weird?"

Arnsedorf shook his head and signaled Calhoun inside,

"Look, Dodger, let's be honest; The ISI is above and beyond anything we've got here, even among state police. H3ll, ISI is probably above the CIA. We don't know much about them, but we do know that you've been missing more and more field shifts to hang out with them. I just assumed it was in everyone's interest to avoid asking questions surrounding your...departure."

Calhoun just shrugged his shoulders. He didn't have any personal belongings in the office, so no lose there.

"I guess I'm just stopping in to tell you congrats on the promotion...and good luck."

Arnsedorf put on the most authentic smile Calhoun had seen all year and patted his shoulder.

"You too Dodger. Go get a medal or something and make us proud."

They shook hands and Calhoun made his way back to elevator and back downstairs to the receptionist.

"...Uh...excuse me...Claire right?" The auburn-haired secretary looked up from her computer screen,

"Yes...can I help you?"

"My name is Adrian Calhoun, I was wondering if..."

"Oh yes, the Chief Detective...I've got your package right here sir." She reached under her desk and pulled out a large yellow envelope, "The guy who dropped it off asked me to have you open it at home." Calhoun sighed and waved over his shoulder as he walked back out into the street through the glass revolving doors he had entered not 10 minutes earlier. Home was a single story home, gone from a rent to a purchase after two years of living in it, which had since provided another 6 years of shelter. A short bus ride from the station, Calhoun made it a point to avoid any luxuries that he could. The house sold for less than 150k. Red brick, with paint pealing around the doors and windows; Inside was run down carpet, and stained linoleum tile in the kitchen and bathrooms. Calhoun himself was a clean person, but the house was long gone even before he moved in. The entire neighborhood was practically gone.

Since the sun was already up by this time, Calhoun decided to walk the 12 blocks back. The entire way, his mind played around with the idea of what might be inside the yellow envelope. It felt heavy, full like an over stuffed grocery bag that could snap open and scatter its contents at any given moment. By the time he got home, it was clear in his mind he had been assigned a new gun, which meant a new badge probably accompanied it, as well as documents explaining how exactly he was supposed to take care of his new job.

Inside the house, he made his way past the old television set and torn leather couch to a door right next to his bedroom. Inside there was a concrete staircase which led to the basement. Calhoun's basement was his sanctuary, and could easily be used to mistaken him as a psychopath. A concrete floor and concrete walls, a single oak desk and chair sat in the corner, all lit by single reading lamp styled from those made in the 1940's, complete with the emerald painted porcelain cover.

He sat down in his chair and tore open the envelope. The first thing that he dumped out was the gun and badge. The badge was a gold circle, smaller than a fist with an eye engraved on one side, and a scale on the other. In its center was a tiny picture of the United Nations in New York, and underneath that was one of the strangest things he had ever seen: Engraved in all capital letters was DODGER. How did...why the h3ll did they put that? He thought to himself. The gun itself was even stranger. It wasn't a Berretta .56 like he was used to, or even a chrome stub-nose like the older detectives liked to use...instead, it was an SC model, a 5Seven. Calhoun had read up on them when he was training, but never understood why anyone would need a sidearm that could fire 20 rounds in 3 second, but it's what INERPOL used and apparently ISI was on the same boat. Stuck in the bottom of the package was a 4 inch silencer, which he pulled and set to the side. Calhoun also pulled out a black cell phone, and a stack of papers entitled "Basic Field Operations". Calhoun started to read. 2 hours and about a fifty pages later, he finished.

The guide had started with a letter of congratulations, followed immediately by the explanation Calhoun was hoping for; he was no longer part of the Denver Police. He still had access to everything at the station and would remain on their payroll as a third party informant, checks linked straight into his bank as usual. The cell phone, as it was, was a hot line to his operator at the ISI; the only person who would know what he was up to and what he was supposed to be up to, which is why they used a nickname as his agent reference. Just like a spy flick, Calhoun thought to himself. After another dozen pages of random policies and field standards, Calhoun reached his first official order as an ISI agent; a single sentence plastered alone on the back page which said, PRESS THE SEND BUTTON TWICE TO REACH YOUR OPERATOR NOW.

Calhoun had never used a slider model cell phone like the slick back one he now held in his hand, but after a little exploration he had it opened and found the send function; he pressed it and held it away from his hear, worried about breaking the piece of equipment which seemed fragile to him.

The ring sounded once, when a robotic voice answered the other end,

"Operator." Gurgled the voice. Whoever was speaking used a voice distorter, making it impossible to determine the age or even gender of the person. Calhoun raised an eyebrow to this, not know what to make of it. After a pause in silence the voice spoke again,

"Is it safe to assume the package made its way to Agent Dodger?" Calhoun snapped out of his silence,

"Yeah, it got here. I just finished reading my field manual."

"Excellent, this means I can give you something to do." Even with the voice distorter, Calhoun picked up that his operator was trying to be cute.

"Ok. Shoot."

"As you've already figure, I'm sure, we're investigating Aesir..."

"Am I allowed to ask questions here?"

"Yes, but I may not be allowed to answer them." Ah, now I know I'm in deep sh1t.

"Why Aesir?"

"Dodger, I think it'd be better if you let me complete the brief before you ask anymore questions." Great, now it's making fun of me.

"Fine."

"Thank you. Aesir has recently picked up a large contract with an unnamed investor. The fact that it's a single private transaction is what turned our heads in the first place. Two weeks ago, our previous field agent with Aesir had his identity compromised and went silent. The last time he called his operator, he was able to transmit a series of access codes. At least, that's what we think they are. They could go to a computer, or a door, or even a piece of equipment. All we know is that they're probably the reason he had to go silent right after."

"Is the other agent dead?"

"We don't know, but it's likely. Aesir could be holding them as a captive somewhere, but if that was the case the agent was likely to have committed suicide by now."

"Cyanide? I don't think I got any..."

"ISI Field Agents aren't supposed to get one. You aren't supposed to be caught. If you are, you have to get creative with what you do next."

It suddenly made sense now why ISI was giving him the bare minimum on his briefing; if he was interrogated, there was no way he could divulge information, not even if he needed to in order to save his own hide.

"Fair enough. So how do you want me to get in?"

"You'll work 24/7 on this case, but you decide how to manage most of that. We've arranged for you to roam about under the supervision of Aesir security during regular business hours at the Aesir building in Denver."

"What's my cover?"

"You'll tell them you're Adrian Calhoun; that you're new to ISI and you've been assigned to monitor their transactions and research with the interest of public welfare."

Calhoun paused and contemplated that idea for a second.

"Are you saying I'm just going to waltz in, tell them I'm a cop and I'm investigating them? No cover or anything?"

"Exactly. That's the easiest way. No cover story to keep up, no suspicions, just you snooping around."

"For a dead ISI agent..."

"We're assuming that since they've allowed you in so easily, that they still haven't figured who our last agent really worked for."

"So we're playing stupid for them?"

"That's right." Calhoun paused and sighed a bit. The ISI was a massive network of information specialists and field agents from every branch of government you could imagine. Yet they were still sending in agents in the least tactical way possible.

"Operator, tell me you have more information about the missing agent."

"Most of what I've told you besides their personal information."

"So we have no idea what Aesir has done with them, if anything."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I just was some reassurance before I start this...because from where I'm standing, Aesir is playing just as stupid as we are so they can get their hands on another agent." This time the pause came from the other end of the phone. After about 20 seconds, the voice came back.

"We are completely sure that Aesir has not made any connection between our last field agent and you." Again, Calhoun sighed. Either the voice was right, or the ISI had an unearthly faith in their agents.

"Thanks. Tell me about what to do when I'm not in Aesir."

"Back at the JusticeCenter we've left another package for you in the armory. Thermal goggles, Kevlar, spare ammo, gas grenades; everything you'll need for a live infiltration."

"You want me investigating in broad daylight, and then breaking in at night?"

"That's the idea Dodger. Don't call here anymore, we'll contact you. You can transmit information to us via the phone's text device, encryption codes should be in the envelope. Welcome to the ISI."

With that, the call ended. Calhoun sat in his dark basement for another 5 minutes shuffling through his manual to find the encryption codes. He wrote them down on a sticky note and shoved it in his pocket. He clicked off the reading lamp and sat in the dark for another 5 minutes wondering who he needed to call next.