Lounge Politics – District 1
The lounge in District 1 was quiet, soaked in dim amber lights and distant synth-jazz. GILMORE sat alone, a half-finished glass of black whiskey in hand, his thoughts thicker than the drink.
His new directive had just come in. Confirmed.
Imagawa had shown his hand—classic drop and run tactics.
Coward's play.
He'd be dealt with in time.
Right now, there was bigger fish to gut.
"I was wondering when you'd bring up the question," came a familiar voice.
"Care if I join you?"
President Arishima slid into the seat opposite, a grin stretching across his serpent-like face. Gilmore gave a curt nod.
His guest had arrived.
Arishima—President of Death Mercs Retribution, the third-largest guild in Dream City, just below Atsumori's iron throne.
He was an opportunist in the purest sense. Took every contract he could afford to cash, usually backed by corporations desperate enough to work with a snake. Everyone had used him—except Bineth. Too risky. Too eager to bite.
But Bineth was caught off guard.
Atsumori was making a play for Guild Council leadership, and now everything was shifting. They needed new pieces on the board. Fast.
Gilmore didn't like it.
But this was Hein's directive.
"So, that old piece of junk finally cracked whatever spine he had left, huh?" Arishima said, chuckling into his drink.
Gilmore didn't answer. He didn't have to.
If there were other options, he'd never deal with Arishima. But this wasn't a time for preferences.
This was politics.
"Let me remind you," Gilmore said flatly, "Bineth will become your major partner and stakeholder. I suggest you tidy up all your allegiances—clean. While you go through the details of our agreement, you'll have our full support. But only on our terms."
Arishima nodded slowly. Calculating.
"Of course. I assume that means the weapons deal—y'know, the one halted two years ago—can finally be greenlit?"
Gilmore's expression soured.
That deal.
Arishima had dipped his fingers into private weapons manufacturing, producing small-to-mid-tier gear. It got shut down before it gained traction—too unstable, too unregulated.
Now he wanted it back on the table.
"That's not part of the agreement," Gilmore said coolly.
"You profit only where we tell you to. This deal is non-negotiable. You've got three hours to make a decision."
Arishima leaned back, pretending not to feel the leash tightening.
"Fair enough," he said. "But I've got one more ask."
Gilmore didn't respond. He waited.
"I want in on the Lunar bid," Arishima said.
"I hear it's the talk of the city. A slot at the table. Permanent. You get me in—I'm yours. Bark, bite, and everything in between."
Gilmore stared at him, unreadable.
Then slowly stood.
"Three hours. Don't forget."
Arishima didn't answer. He just smiled, knowing when a deal was tilting in his favor. He raised his glass in silence.
Gilmore walked out of the lounge into the cool D1 night.
No hesitation. No pause.
He dialed a number and brought the comm to his ear.
"It's just as you said," he murmured.
"he'll bite."
Then he ended the call.