Incorporated with DeepSeek
Renoir was in a special business. He had studied first business economics, but
than joined the French Forigne Legion as a French out of pure bordeom minding to
become a gym rat and it was the best he ever did.
He fought in the Euro Wars on the side of the Resistance that demolished all
nation in the Grand Nation creating a Revolution Republic in a one to one copy and
it worked. The people supported their terrorist attacks and urban street combat attacks against those armed forces insisting on the national system with all its privileges and unfair treatment.
This was gone. It had not taken too much time and today he had a special meeting. He had founded an investement company from seized capital of banks that supported the other side and were the french way executed on the spot. No Guilliotine, but full metal jackets. As fast and has little pain.
There was a company that made the huge mistake to sell poised sea food into the new U.S.A and so their contacts asked them to take over the Indonesian company refusing to fix their hygiene and dirt pollution problem.
And everybody knew, but everybody could not resist the luxus.
They had a clear business plan, low but still reasonable buy out offer, that would hold in every news report and court, if they'd made it there...
They'll sign. Today. First meeting.
The air in the 70th-floor boardroom of PT Kelapa Laut was thick with the cloying smell of frangipani and stale ambition. The view was a hazy panorama of Jakarta’s skyline, a forest of neon and smog. Renoir’s physical presence was a ghost, a shimmering, life-sized hologram projected from a sleek, quadrupedal robot that paced silently behind his team. He looked every bit the corporate titan, his Hermes suit rendered in perfect digital detail.
His real muscle was there in the flesh. Leading them was Gérard, a street samurai whose modifications were a love letter to violence. His eyes were cybernetic, scanning the room in thermographic and UV spectra. One arm was a polished chrome prosthetic, the fingers capable of extruding monofilament whips. He had the pallid, cat-like eyes of a Witcher—a side effect of experimental toxin resistance bio-mods that turned his blood into a neutralizer. He stood, still as a statue, behind and to the right of the hologram.
Facing them was Mr. Surya, the CEO, sweating through his expensive linen suit. Flanking him were his security: four hulking orks with obvious ‘ware and the dead-eyed look of professional muscle. And in the shadowy corner of the room, almost blending with the ornate wood paneling, was a thin, gaunt man. His skin had a faint, sickly greenish sheen, and the air around him hummed with a visible, oily distortion. A toxic magician.
The hologram of Renoir smiled, a cold, diplomatic expression. “Mr. Surya. Thank you for seeing us. My associates have presented our offer. I trust you’ve had time to review the terms.”
Surya mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “This is not an offer, it is an insult! A hostile takeover! My company has been in my family for three generations!”
“Two,” Renoir’s hologram corrected smoothly, the image flickering for a nanosecond as satellite data streamed in. “Your grandfather founded it. And it will end with you. Unless you would prefer to face the class-action lawsuits from the North American Coalition. Poisoned seafood, Mr. Surya. Neurotoxins. The damages would not just bankrupt you, they would see you in a corporate prison for the remainder of your… life.”
The toxic magician in the corner shifted. A low, guttural chant began to seep from his lips. The air grew heavier, the smell of frangipani twisting into the reek of rotting meat and chemical waste.
Gérard’s Witcher eyes didn’t even blink. He simply raised his chrome hand, palm open. A fine, almost invisible mist sprayed from micro-nozzles in his wrist, forming a neutralizing aerosol cloud around Renoir’s team.
“*Arrêtez,*” Gérard said, his voice a low gravelly hum. “Your magic is pollution. My blood is the filter.”
The magician’s eyes widened in shock as his gathering toxic energies hit Gérard’s cloud and dissipated harmlessly, neutralized on a molecular level. One of the ork bodyguards reached inside his jacket.
He never cleared his holster.
There was a blur of motion. A *crack* of breaking bone. The ork was on his knees, clutching a wrist bent at an impossible angle. Gérard stood back in his original position, a single drop of black oil glistening on the knuckles of his chrome hand. The other samurai hadn't even moved, their hands resting casually near their own concealed weapons, their expressions bored.
The hologram of Renoir didn’t flinch. He continued as if nothing had happened. “As you can see, Mr. Surya, we are serious. We are also efficient. We have no desire for a messy spectacle. Sign the transfer of assets. Walk away with the generous severance we’ve outlined. Or…” The hologram’s eyes flicked to the moaning ork, then back to Surya. “…we can explore less civilized alternatives.”
Surya’s shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him. He looked from the implacable hologram to the deadly samurai, to his own magician who was now staring at Gérard with a mixture of fear and hatred.
“The pen,” Surya whispered.
One of Renoir’s team, a sharp-faced woman with datajack ports behind her ear, placed a secured tablet and a stylus on the teak table. Surya scrawled his signature with a trembling hand.
The hologram of Renoir beamed. “A wise decision. My associates will escort you and your staff to your vehicles. We’ve already taken the liberty of packing your personal effects. They will be sent to your primary residence.”
Gérard gave a slight nod. Two of his samurai moved forward, their presence not offering comfort, but ensuring compliance. They guided the defeated Surya and his entourage, including the seething toxic magician, out of the boardroom.
From the hologram, Renoir’s voice came, now crisp and command-oriented. “Alpha team, the package is en route to the garage. Beta team, deploy the AI cluster. I want this network mapped and subverted in the next ten minutes. The rule of Kelapa Laut begins now.”
Down in the underground parking garage, Surya slid into the back of his armored limousine. His orks and the toxic magician piled into a follow-up SUV. The engines purred to life. The gates rose. As the small convoy pulled out into the Jakarta night, they passed a non-descript van. Inside, a technician watched them leave on a monitor.
“Package has exited the perimeter,” he said into his mic.
Back in the boardroom, Gérard watched as the quadruped robot projecting Renoir’s image trotted over to the central data port. A panel on its back slid open, and a complex, crystalline data chip, glowing with a soft blue light, was extended by a delicate robotic arm. It slotted seamlessly into the port.
The hologram of Renoir flickered once, twice, and then resolved into a new form: a swirling, complex mandala of light and data—the visual representation of the AI coming online.
A synthesized, calm voice echoed in the room. “**System access initiated. Firewalls bypassed. Beginning asset cataloguing and operational overhaul.**”
The takeover was complete. The rebuild had begun.
