Fisk
Legacy Name: Fisk

the soft sound of many fingers tapping swiftly across computer keyboards filtered throughout room. it skipped across rows of polished desks, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and bounced along the freshly waxed floor. figures sat atop high desk chairs or perched on sleek couches--the sources of the incessant tapping echoing throughout the space.

not a single voice rang out; yet words were rushing from these beings like bees to pollen. thousands of letters flared into a fiery existence every second; knitting together syllables to form words, and words to sentences, and finally sentences to stories. furiously, feverishly ideas were exchanged, edited, defended, revised, clarified, finalized. this crashing crescendo of realized thoughts matched the frantic dance of fingers across keyboards.

tap, tap, tap, tap, tap

this was the office of fisk ichi, Editor of the Subeta Times, and this was just how he liked it. quick, efficient, and professional.

Fisk walked past the rows of desks and diligently typing journalists to reach his office--a glassed in space at the end of the room. It featured a pair of grey wool couches in front of a large white desk. However, these large pieces of furniture were dwarfed by the monitors lining the back wall of the room. Eight high definition televisions gleamed behind the desk, each tuned to a different news channel. This was his home away from home, his inner sanctum. The place he felt the most secure and the most powerful. Nothing could darken his light in here. Nothing could bring him down...

"Fisky, my main man. The Fiskerino, the fisker, the big fisk. How are you today? Feelin'... open-minded?" boomed a gruff voice from across the room.

Nothing except the presence of Investigative Journalist Beal Zingerman in his office. Fisk sighed. This was the start to a very trying day, he could just tell.

Fisk pursed his lips. "What do you want Beal? Short and to the point, please. I don't have time to deal with your hyperbole or your vulgarity today."