Silas's Dirty Tricks

Silas Vance, a man whose ambition coiled tighter than a spring-loaded viper, found himself staring at a steaming cup of synth-coffee, the bitter taste mirroring the bile rising in his throat. Will. That infernal, unkempt, utterly *unqualified* upstart was not just surviving, he was *thriving*. His custom mechs, born from some inexplicable fluke of a blueprint, were flooding the market, undercutting Silas’s meticulously crafted, and significantly more expensive, wares. The whispers in the back alleys of Neo-Kyoto, the hushed conversations in the executive suites of the mech guilds – they all spoke of Will, the rogue creator, the accidental genius. It was an affront. A glaring, chrome-plated insult to Silas’s years of carefully cultivated dominance.

“He’s getting too big for his britches, Bartholomew,” Silas hissed, his voice a low rasp that barely disturbed the opulent silence of his private workshop. Bartholomew, or Barty as he insisted on being called, a man whose age was as indeterminate as his smile, merely hummed, polishing a lens on a pair of ridiculously oversized spectacles.

“Britches are rather subjective, Silas,” Barty replied, his voice a reedy whisper, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Some prefer a snug fit, others a more… expansive drape.”