Subtlety leaves references everywhere. By the way, I also have concept art stuff for this fic on my DA (link to my DA on my profile).

Look at it this way, I'm very busy. You got that? Humans are always asking for their fates to be changed and for them to get some god sent miracle. I have to run around, fixing up lives and fates for all these humans, every second of existence. There are just so dang many of you mortals. Most times, I just set up everything on autopilot, a simple form to fill out with little variation. Sometimes, someone gets fortunate, and receive a custom made fate. However, it's hard enough doing that for one human, and don't even think about multiplying that by several billion. Pfft, like, good luck.

In fact, if my work is ever messed up or overwritten, you can bet your life that Luck fixed up that nice cocktail for you. Luck's always going about, laughing and playing with what is rightfully mine. Luck doesn't like me, and I don't like Luck.

So Nike Antos and his little Team F aren't going to get my help, and like hell are they getting Luck's help. Those suckers will have to deal with what I had handed out to them. They shouldn't complain so much.

Nike Antos left the building, frustrated and head pounding, heading to the street. Although you wouldn't know he was anything but calm if you looked at him. Rachael always joked that he was a robot. His team had reacted in shock to the folder, starting to curse Mr. Jones and the recon team. At the very least, it was some comfort that he and the others – Vale, Simon, and Carlos – were just serving as backup this time. The task of directly confronting Jones was Rachel and her team's responsibility. He could only hope for the best for the lady, she was nice, if a bit cold at first. And a bit quirky with an affinity for cat masks.

Merging into the shifting crowds of pedestrians and tourists, Nike weaved his way to the nearest metro station. Descending down the drying steps, away from gray clouds that just finished unloading one shipment of rain and soon to drop more, and into the large concrete tunnels with the other metro riders, Nike paid for a ticket, and then went past the gates. Artificial wind swept down the dimly lit, humid platform.

The Metro trains didn't go through nearly as often as they used to. Between two trains, what used to be a waiting time of a few minutes, one could be standing there for twenty minutes before finally getting a ride. Today Nike was lucky; the metro arrived in the few minutes it took for him to finish reading and deleting certain text messages on his phone.

It wouldn't do for his little sister to know what kind of work he did.

His little sister…Minny Antos was a kind girl, and just starting a new job after quitting the last one, something about snobs and horrible bosses. Nike could only hope that her new job in the city would be kinder. It seemed so from their talks at dinner in the modest apartment they lived in. She would often refer to her boss as "bossman," a nickname she often tacked onto those in charge that she liked. Although the nicknames might also stem from the fact that she wasn't the best at remembering names.

No matter, what was most important for Nike was that Minny was happy and never had to cry. Minny often brushed him off, telling him she was fine. But ever since Mom died and with Dad in the hospital…He couldn't help but worry. This city unfortunately wasn't the safest of cities, something that distressed Nike and was partially his fault. A paradox that kept him up at night at times. Sometimes he deeply regretted his actions that day several years ago.

The train rumbled on, along its steel tracks, in dark, concrete tunnels. Nike didn't heed to the metro as it stopped at stations and chugged on. He had a few more stops before his.

Given that it was a Monday with a long week ahead, Nike entertained the idea of visiting Dad with Minny tomorrow after work. They probably should, they all would need it. Even if it meant having to keep lying to everyone about his profession.

Weak light streamed in through the windows as the metro finally left its dark tunnels. Specks of water tapped the glass. Seeing the change in light, Nike stood, grabbing his bag and phone, frowning at the water outside. He didn't have an umbrella and the apartment complex was several blocks away from the station. He was going to have to run.

Finally, he reached his stop, got off, and began sprinting up the uncovered stairs to the street noise with cars driving and honking and the tap-tap-tap of feet.

The rain kept falling.

America stared at the rain falling down from the sheltered front steps of the building. Great, he forgot his umbrella at home and didn't feel like hailing a taxi. Whatever, if he ran, he might not get completely soaked. Hopefully the same would be able to be applied to his briefcase of papers.

Behind him, he heard the door slide open and heels tap-tapping on the hard floor.

"Aw man, it's raining. I forgot my coat at home. Geez, brother's going to be upset."

America flicked his eyes from his phone to the woman rummaging around her purse. She was a recent hire, if America remembered right. Michael Antos, known to close friends and family as Minny Antos, lives with her older brother in an apartment as few blocks westward, mother passed away a few years ago, father currently in a hospital for cancer. Naturally brown haired but dyes hair orange on a regular basis, goes out to bars with friends every few months – oh hell, America was doing it again. The ability for a nation to glean the life story from any of their citizens was an unconscious ability, and was technically an invasion of privacy. He averted his eyes back to his text message to England as Michael pulled out a phone.

"Come on, pick up," Michael muttered. With a frustrated huff, she put away her phone after several attempts to connect.

Shrugging in her blouse, Michael began walking out into the rain. America heard her sigh, "And it was such a nice day this morning."

Nike slammed the apartment door behind him, panting from his sprint through crowds all the way from the station. All his clothing was soaked and rainwater dripped onto the hardwood floor. With a sigh and a grimace, he walked in, flicking the lights on, and deposited his workbag on the table in the first room. He shrugged off his jacket, folded it up, and entered his bedroom briefly to throw it onto a coat hanger to dry. Minny hadn't got home yet, the apartment was silent except for the pattering of rain on the windows. The rush of water in the shower joined the quiet as Nike prepared a shower.