Imagine that you live in a city of villains.

Your city has a billionaire playboy. He lives on top of the hill. You don't know much about him, other than what you read in the papers about his romantic exploits and elaborate black-tie parties. You had a gig once offloading decorative antique suits of armor at his mansion up on the hill. You wanted to sign up for the gig offloading slabs of marble to be installed in his ballroom, but you hurt your back and got fired.

You met the billionaire playboy once. You grew up in one of his orphanages, after your Pop was killed by a villain and your Ma ran off to make her fortune robbing banks in a souped-up mech suit. The orphanage was nice, nicer than home even, because nobody there was squirreling away your lunch money to pay for mech suit parts. You met the billionaire playboy when he came through the orphanage to inspect the place. There was a woman with a clipboard trailing behind him, and she smiled at you. The billionaire ran his hands across the rows of bedposts and looked into the distance, and you couldn't catch his eye.

After you hurt your back, your buddy tells you about a job he's got working in-house security at some guy's warehouse downtown. You live downtown. It would be nice to work close to where you live -- you wouldn't have to sit on the half-the-time-broke-down trolley that goes from just outside the slums to the canning district, which is your other employment option.

The billionaire playboy owns a lot of real estate in the city. That, you learn through your buddy as you walk together to the security job, is how the billionaire playboy's family amassed their fortune. They owned all the land before the city became a bustling urban metropolis.

You're not sure whether he owns the slum where you live. You wonder if your rent money pays for decorative antique suits of armor.

Previously, previously, previously, previously, previously, previously, previously, previously.