When the conversation inevitably circled back to the practicalities, Lutz was ready. He framed every necessary evil of commerce as a heroic, if tedious, burden that he, as the visionary's partner, would nobly shoulder.
"This patent business," Lutz said with a sigh, as if discussing a distasteful but necessary medical procedure. "A labyrinth of bureaucrats and solicitors. It would be a criminal waste of your genius, Filip, to have you mired in that quagmire. Your mind belongs here, at the forge of the future." He placed a hand on a nearby prototype, a gesture of solidarity. "Allow me to handle that… drudgery. I have contacts in the city. I'll engage the lawyers, manage the filings. You focus on bringing the 'Filip Driver' to life."
He saw the relief flood Filip's face. This was the exact outcome he had hoped for. The inventor, who saw legalities as a plague on his creative process, was all too happy to delegate it.
"And as for the corporate structure," Lutz continued, his tone becoming that of a pragmatic strategist, "we must be clever. You, the brilliant inventor, must be shielded. The public face of the invention, yes, but we must protect your interests from… let's call them 'predatory competitors'. I propose we establish a corporate entity. 'Filip Innovations' has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Filip beamed. The name was a monument to his ego.
"Now," Lutz went on, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "to ensure you can work unfettered, free from financial worries or corporate raids, the ownership and controlling shares should be held by a separate, discreet holding company. A silent partner, as it were. That will be my contribution. I will be the shield in the shadows, handling the capital, the expansion, the brutal world of commerce, while you are the sword of progress, blazing the trail."
He presented it not as a takeover, but as a partnership of complementary talents. He was the steward, the protector. Filip, in his naivety and arrogance, ate it up. He was so captivated by the vision of his name in lights that he never stopped to question who would own the theater. In his mind, he was receiving funding and freedom. In Lutz's, he was signing over the keys to his kingdom for the price of a fancy title.
They shook hands as the midday bell tolled in the distance. Filip's grip was firm, enthusiastic, his eyes shining with the unclouded faith of a true believer. Lutz's grip was just as firm, but his smile was a masterpiece of duplicity—warm on the surface, calculating beneath.
"I'll begin the arrangements immediately," Lutz said, clapping Filip on the shoulder. "You, my friend, have a world to change."
He left the workshop, the cacophony of industry fading behind him. The moment he was alone in the carriage, the congenial expression melted from his face, replaced by the cool, focused intensity of Lutz Fischer.
His first stop was not a lawyer's office, but a public records hall. He needed a name, a pre-existing, insignificant corporate shell he could use as his "discreet holding company." He spent an hour poring over dusty ledgers, his perception allowing him to skim pages with unnatural speed, his mind filtering out irrelevant data until he found it: "The Northern Star Import & Export Co.," a defunct, one-man operation that had been dissolved years ago due to inactivity. It was perfect. A ghost.
Next, he went to a firm of solicitors, one he had researched beforehand—reputable enough to be legitimate, but not so prominent as to ask overly probing questions of a wealthy young noble. He was shown into a wood-paneled office by a clerk, and soon after, a middle-aged man with a balding head and sharp, discerning eyes entered.
"Sir," the solicitor said, taking a seat. "How can we be of service?"
Lutz adopted the air of a slightly overwhelmed but enthusiastic entrepreneur. "It's a thrilling matter, truly! I'm backing a most brilliant inventor, a fellow named Filip. His creations are set to revolutionize construction! But, between you and me," he leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, "the poor man is an artist. A genius, but has no head for business. I need to ensure his inventions are protected, and that our commercial venture is structured soundly."
He laid out a simplified version of the plan, carefully omitting any technical details that could be stolen. He presented himself as the benevolent patron, the business brains behind the operation.
"I need two primary services," Lutz stated, his tone becoming businesslike. "First, I need to file a comprehensive patent for a 'pneumatic nail-driving apparatus'. The drawings and specifications will follow. The application must be broad, covering the core mechanism and its principle of operation. I want to tie this concept to the inventor, Filip, as tightly as possible." This was the bait for Filip's ego, and it was true—for now.
"Secondly," he continued, "I need to establish a corporate structure. A primary company, let's call it 'Filip Innovations,' which will be the public face. And a separate holding company, which will own the patents and the majority of the shares." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "I've taken the liberty of reviving a dormant corporate entity for this purpose: The Northern Star Import & Export Co. I'll be the sole director and shareholder."
The solicitor nodded, making notes. "A standard practice for asset protection and operational discretion. And the ownership split between 'Filip Innovations' and 'Northern Star'?"
Lutz feigned thoughtful consideration. "We must incentivize Filip, of course. He should have a minority share in 'Filip Innovations,' say… twenty percent? It will make him feel invested, no pun intended. But the patents, the intellectual property… that must be held by the holding company. To protect it, you understand. And the holding company will, naturally, own the remaining eighty percent of 'Filip Innovations.'" He presented the exploitative arrangement as a prudent, protective measure.
Despite carrying himself with such confidence, Lutz had just very recently been learning all these aspects of bureaucracy and law required for business, however, his newly augmented eloquence caused him to deliver on topics he was only a novice at with complete credibility.
The solicitor, seeing nothing illegal, only a wealthy man structuring a business to his advantage, agreed. "We can draft the articles of incorporation and the patent application immediately. We will need Mr. Filip's signature on the patent documents, of course, assigning the invention to the company."
"Of course," Lutz said smoothly. "I'll bring him by. He's terribly busy, but he'll be thrilled to see his legacy being formally enshrined."
As the solicitor drafted the documents, Lutz moved on to his next task: a bank. He needed to reactivate the corporate account for "The Northern Star Import & Export Co." and inject capital. Using a portion of his remaining funds, he established a line of credit and deposited a substantial sum of 100 Hammers, leaving himself with 303 Hammers, making the ghost company look like a viable, active entity. Every step was a thread in the web he was weaving, a web where Filip would be the buzzing, celebrated fly, and Lutz would be the unseen spider.
He returned to the solicitor's office in the late afternoon to review the drafts. The language was perfect—legally airtight, obscuring the true power dynamic beneath layers of corporate jargon. The patent application glorified Filip as the sole inventor. The corporate documents quietly ensured that Lutz, through Northern Star, controlled everything.
The final, masterful touch was a clause he had the solicitor insert—a right of first refusal and a buy-sell agreement structured heavily in favor of the majority shareholder. If Filip ever became difficult or tried to leave, Lutz could force him out for a pittance, or acquire his shares at a predetermined, low price. It was the hidden trapdoor in the gilded cage.
As dusk settled over St. Millom, Lutz sat in his study at Vesper Lane. The day had been a long, intricate dance, and he had led every step.
Lutz poured himself a small glass of amber liquor Eliza had bought, the day's efforts having given him a newfound appreciation for the simple, honest taste of alcohol after the cloying sweetness of his potion.
The amber liquor had done its work, soothing the edges of his triumph and allowing a quiet, warm satisfaction to settle in his bones. The Filip operation was a delicate mechanism, and while he trusted his newfound skills and acquired knowledge, he was not so arrogant as to believe he could handle every legal intricacy himself. The corporate veil, the patent language, the specific clauses needed to silently enforce his control—these required a professional touch. He needed a lawyer, but not one from the gleaming, reputable firms that served the Merchant Consortium. He needed someone… flexible, slippery.
The morning after his successful maneuver, Lutz felt the pleasant hum of a plan well-set. With a cup of coffee in hand, he spread the St. Millom broadsheets across his desk, the crisp pages smelling of ink and cheap paper. His goal was practical: find a solicitor. Not some pompous windbag from a marble-columned firm, but someone competent, discreet, and, most importantly, flexible enough to not ask why a young noble needed such creatively restrictive corporate clauses.
After a light breakfast, his eyes, sharpened by enhanced perception, scanned the columns of small print in the legal notices section. Most were bland announcements from established firms. Then, nestled between an ad for a missing parrot and a notice for a public auction of seized goods, a small, boxed headline in a slightly more bold typeface snagged his attention.
His eyes skimmed past announcements for horse auctions, through the dense thickets of legal notices. "Hearth & Stone, Providers of Surety." Boring. "The Jones Charter Company." Absolutely not. Then, tucked between an ad for a missing tortoiseshell cat and a notice for a public lecture on the ethical implications of the steam engine, he saw it.
A small, boxed advertisement, its font slightly more bold and… cheeky, than its neighbors.
"BETTER CALL GENE"
Below it was an address in the Kogman Quarter and the tagline: "Lawyer, Gene Takavic, Discrete Inquiries & Legal Solutions. No Case Too Unusual."
Lutz's coffee cup halted halfway to his lips. He blinked. Then he blinked again, as if trying to clear a smudge from the newsprint.
No. No, that's not right.
The phrase echoed in his mind, not in the common Feysacian tongue, but in the ghost of a television jingle from a lifetime ago. He saw a flash of a garish, color-saturated suit, a slick-backed hairstyle, and a desert landscape that was the polar opposite of St. Millom's lush green fields and snow.
A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face. You have got to be kidding me.
His initial shock quickly gave way to a torrent of analytical, and deeply sarcastic, internal commentary.
Alright, universe, he thought, setting the cup down with a soft click. Is this some kind of joke? Did I die and get sent into a crossover episode? The sheer absurdity of it was breathtaking. Here he was, a Beyonder thief-turned-swindler in a world of potions, psychic plants, and vengeful horrors, and he's looking at a reference to a prequel series about a morally ambiguous lawyer from early 21st-century America.
'Better Call Gene.' He let the name roll around in his head. The mental image of some stuffy Feysacian barrister trying to emulate Saul Goodman's particular brand of flamboyant chaos was so ludicrous he almost laughed out loud.
But the cynicism quickly reasserted itself. The warm, fuzzy hope of finding a kindred spirit was immediately doused in the cold water of practical paranoia.
Okay, let's think this through. Scenario one: It's a colossal, universe-sized coincidence. Some guy named Gene has a mediocre legal practice and a marketing advisor with a strange sense of humor. The phrase 'Better Call Gene' just happens to be the Feysacian equivalent. Right. And I'm the Queen of Intis. The probability was so low it was practically negative.
Scenario two, the weirdest one: It's real. There was another one. Another poor soul who'd been yanked out of their life and dumped here. The question was, what had they become? Lutz's own path had been dictated by desperation and circumstance—Marauder, then Swindler. They could be anyone.
And what if this is just some guy who saw the show and thought, 'You know what this world of mystical powers and cosmic horror needs? A sleazy ambulance chaser.' The thought was somehow both comforting and deeply, deeply concerning.
He focused on the tagline again. "No Case Too Unusual." That was the clincher. That wasn't the language of a lawyer who handled property disputes or inheritance law. That was the slogan of someone who knew that "unusual" in this city could mean a haunted locket, a contract with a fairy, or a client who was wanted by three different churches.
A lawyer, he mused, a plan beginning to form. If he is one of us, he's chosen the perfect cover. Who questions a lawyer? They're professional liars and loophole-finders. Maybe he was a lawyer back on earth? In that case, the laws of this in-development world are probably child's play for him. And if i need a solicitor for the Filip venture anyway… why not kill two birds with one stone? Due diligence and existential inquiry, all in one visit.
Decision made. He finished his coffee, the dregs cold. He ascended the stairs and changed into the James Morgan uniform—the bright yellow suit, a shield of flamboyant and respectable banality. He patted his pocket, feeling the familiar, cool weight of Creed. He wasn't going for a fight, but a little persuasive boost over his own abilities never hurt.
"Eliza, I'm following a lead on a legal representative for our venture," he announced breezily as he passed through the foyer. "I may be some time."
Stepping out into the hazy St. Millom morning, he hailed a carriage. "The Kogman Quarter," he instructed the driver, settling back against the worn leather seats. "Corner of Inkwell and Third."
As the carriage clattered through the streets, leaving the respectable veneer of Vesper Lane behind, Lutz prepared himself.