Prologue

In the dead of night, an...interesting looking person silently stalked a dim light flickering on and off in the abandoned factory. The man wore a black shirt and black jeans. He also had goggles, and LET ME TELL YOU, those goggles were UGLY. Like, they didn't even DO anything, like WHAT WAS THE POINT-- Sorry, I got carried away. Anyways, he had untidy hair that was like a blob on his head, and a tall, thin, birch-like physique. He was also that infamous guy who--
	"DAMN DANNY, Found 'em drug thugs, sunny?!"
	Daniel Otson heard his commander shout ANOTHER commnd through the radio.
	"A-whah, commando?"
	"Found 'em druggies?"
	"Yea...but don't call me 'Danny,' cuz I outgrew that name."
	The man on the radio was dead serious, and not in a joking mood. He kept his smothering Southern drawl, though. Pressure was building up in his pressure-cooker hot-head, but he was keeping his cool. I mean he wasn't keeping it THAT cool, but he was trying
	"You came up with the darn thin' 5 darn min'ts 'go."
	"Well..."
	"Dammit, least y'got ya AK, sun?"
	"Not a 'gay day?'"
	"The HEIL?!" The commander's Texan accent became a language of its own when he got mad, and you could barely understand him, like trying to read Latin only knowing Italian or German only knowing English.
	"Ya d'rn cattle ranch'n boy'nt 'oughtta could'nt'a shoulda dang d'rn..."
	"Oops."
	"Oops 'ndeed y'mule'o'a'worms, sun. 'n a whop'n whoop'n y'ass'll catch, boy..."
	Meanwhile, Daniel was having a monologue of his own. A sincere work of art, and a pained one too. A verse of suffering and survival. A verse of a certain Southern someone.
	"Here I am... poor SAMMY SLIMY, to beat up the drug dealers, called to base. What a waste of gass! I got the pride flags, I got the good vibes and gay (as in happy) music, but I have to go back to base to get my AK. What an actual waste of gas! These could be dinosaurs wafting into the air for no reason, dead for a pointless perish... Is that how you can use that word?"
	"Y'r azz'b'lik'dead ass'n Y'GON'B'DEAD WH'N'Y'DONE W'ME, B--"
	Daniel turned on the music and turned off the radio; he could not suffer through any more decoding of 'Texasish.' So, Daniel, or SAMMY SLIMY, strolled into the factory, navigating wide conveyor belts and tall machinery, weaving through silently like a primal hunter, one fluid motion, as if he born for this one mission. But of course, he was just making things up, following the light he spied since he arrived. He found the people he was after, and flags in hand, whooped their asses merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, cuz working for the FBI was just a gig to him (or at least he treated it like it was one.)

	In a relatively secluded area in Brooklyn (which means surrounded by three buildings, but, hey, it's a gosh darn metropolis), on the third floor, in room 314, there was blue right emmitted from a screen's user interface elements, with various other colors changing as a slideshow of images on the screen faded in and out, the whole thing covering the entire wall and some of the roof and floor. Two men shrouded in darkness were sat on a small, circular table, facing eachother.
	"Darn'd dummy be such a brat. Not list'nin to a single word"
	"But he's not to be let go. Ain't wun t'go yet."
	"Huh?"
	"He darn useful, broth'r."
	The commander was about to say something in return to retaliate against his vice, a.k.a. his brother, but couldn't find anything to say since the things he was saying were true, when--
	Light.
	It flooded the room, scalding the poor mens' retinas. A silhouette cut through the shining white.
	"Is this heav'n," the fatter man said to himself, a whisper in awe. Then, the commander heard that familiar, annoying, stubborn, cheery voice. "No, this is work! Oh, yeah. Hi 'vicey!' Whatcha' doin'? Talking about your crushes?.. Ooh! I had one in 3rd grade, and weirdly, she had this weird mole on her face so--"
	Damn Danny-- Sammy Slimy-- Daniel-- whatever his name was-- he was talking super fast, and that must've fogged the commander's mind. The lights and the dork, he couldn't take them at the same time. He was barely able to think.
	"FIRE THE GOD DAMN DEMON SPAWN 'LREADY"
	The vice commander looked at his older brother like how an adult would look at a toddler after explaining that two plus four is NOT eight for the third time and told him, "No s'r. He well dandy asset. More r'liable 'dan no man otha' we got."
	Daniel would never understand these goobers...