<hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: courier;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 20pt;"><strong>Game Master</strong></span></span></div><hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;">Deathnote</span></strong></span></div><hr/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Michael Foste</span><br/>San Fransisco, CA | August 9, 2017 | 8 PM PST<br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 10pt;">(Ken Aldrin)</span></strong><br/>More then twelve hours after the text had been sent – from a prepaid cell phone that had been purchased, activated, used to send that text, then snapped in two and thrown into the Pacific – and Micahel had been laying low that whole time. He'd only slipped out his little forty-dollar-a-night motel just in time to arrive at the bus station when he said he'd be there. Foste, who had once been the primary assistant to Dr. Reginald Octavio – one of the brilliant minds who worked along side Dr. Hawk while he was creating the IVC Virus – hardly looked like himself. The years since the program was shut down and Hawk – as well as the other, lesser known, doctors – went missing had not treated poor Michael well. He was an older man to begin with, an assistant at forty-three and now he was closing in on fifty – but he could have passed for sixty, with the way he'd lost hair and it had gone stark white. Even his skin seemed older then the truth of him. He'd selected the most unassuming clothing he could, khaki slacks topped with a light blue jacket and a Red Sox baseball cap tugged so that its brim shadowed his face. <br/><br/>Ken didn't need to know who he was looking for, because Michael knew. He waited until Ken was alone and away from people at the station to approach him. Without much warning he walked up behind the boy – by comparison – and grabbed his wrist. His rough voice, classic signs of smoking for too many years, grumbled in a very familiar and telling way. “Walk with me Ken. Don't look around. Keep your head down. They're watching.”<br/><br/>Michael tugged him along the sidewalk, away from the main terminal of the station, and towards one of the public restrooms on the inside. His head flicked around when they got to the door, dramatically, like he was just waiting for men in black suits to jump out of the shadows. They never came. Instead he thrust the door open and all but dragged his former associate – a strong term, considering that they never actually worked together – into the bathroom.<br/><br/>He released Ken just in time to start stalking the stalls of the room, throwing each of the doors open to make sure that they were alone in here. Once he was satisfied that no one was listening to them, that they had a moment to speak privately, he tugged the cap from his head. If his voice hadn't been enough to spark the memory, certain the awkward crook of his nose was. It was one of a kind. He held up a shaky finger and pointed towards the door. “Don't let anyone in.” He urged, slowly coming back towards the younger man.<br/><br/></span><hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: courier;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 20pt;"><strong>Game Master</strong></span></span></div><hr/>