[u][b]Good Business | Billhook Cleaners, Dojoville[/b][/u] [spoiler]Open.[/spoiler] Billhook Cleaners. The new family-owned cleaning business that had just opened up in the Dojo. It was a genius idea in theory - in a place full of battles and bloodshed, there was no place to give proper maintenance to equipment. They offered custom jobs: steam-cleaning powered armour, service drones that handled enchanted swords, and AI that could strip, clean, then reassemble the most complex guns that looked like they were pulled out of the pages of some sci-fi magazine. A conventional business, and the only one of its kind. After all, it seemed much more useful to the Dojo than a Starbucks - well, ever since Starbucks had stopped being a weapons shop. The owner was one Mason Cartier, an aging white man who seemed well-built for his middle age. Salt and pepper hair was neatly combed, in-line with his casual button-down and khakis. Mason limped through the many cleaning units that lined his building's walls. He used a gunmetal grey cane to aid in movement, his left leg entrapped in an exoskeletal brace. A strange thing in the Dojo, a place where mechanical augmentation and magic could easily fix any sort of ailments. He reflected on the conversation that came just before while drifting between cleaning units, losing himself in his own recollection. ~~~ "Who would've thought that you'd end up here of all places?" the Arabic man asked his friend at the counter. He chuckled in response. "My days in the field are over. I'm better off in my quiet little business here." "You and I both know that's not true." "Of course it's not. This is my job as well as yours." "No, I don't mean that." The storeowner was silent for a moment. "How can you stand it, Moss? Knowing that there's maniacs like that still out there? People like [i]him[/i] from here?" "I can't, Art." "Mason. It's Mason now." "They really [i]do[/i] have a sense of irony, don't they? Moss, Mason, Lingchi." "Don't remind me of him. He gives me the creeps." "You get used to being constantly psychoanalyzed." "Speak for yourself." The two shared one last laugh before the Arabic man stood up from his bench and gave his old friend a hug over the counter. "Stay safe." "In a place like this? That's impossible." "As safe as you can, anyways." Fixing his turban, the well-dressed Mr. Moss put his dark blue suit jacket back on and adjusted his signature hunter green tie. "I guess I'll be seeing you, [i]Mason.[/i]" "You too, Moss. You too." ~~~ He looked at his digital watch, accessing his calendar and checking if there were any special visitors scheduled to come. As soon as he began scrolling through the various dates, he shrugged and closed the app. If anyone noteworthy came in, he would deal with them accordingly.