"Mr Quickley? Have a new delivery for ya, and you were requested personally."

Ian Quickley perked up as his boss called out his name. His boss rarely gave out specific requests for the many runners that his company had employed, and even less so was Ian given any. Mr Quickley was, by far, one of the least successful runners. Why anyone would ask for him was beyond even the most successful sleuthers. Ian walked into his boss' office, holding his delivery satchel in his hands. He nervously fondled the opening, as his boss closed the door behind him. He locked it: Ian's heart began pounding very quickly, yet he didn't fully know why. His boss loosened his tie uncomfortably, clearing his throat. His eyes darted from the odd package on his desk to Ian, and Ian could see that he wasn't the only one who was feeling a bit of pressure. His boss wiped the sweat off his forehead and straightened his self before speaking.

"Alright, Ian, let me speak very clearly here. Listen to me, please, because this is incredibly important." Ian took a seat, keeping a wide-eyed stare on his nerve-wracked boss. He watched him walk over to the window, look down onto the carapace-infested streets below, and closed the blinds. Turning back, he picked up the package in his free hand: the other one was still dabbing away the sweat.

"You were asked by a very rich, very powerful man to deliver this package. Don't ask me what's in it, because I don't know. He said it was delicate, fragile, and above all, VERY IMPORTANT. Why he asked YOU to take it is beyond me." Ian looked at the ground guiltily as he faintly recalled the last few times he delivered something: they all ended in monumental failures. "Please, Ian, if you screw this up, it's not just going to be MY head on the line, it's going to be YOURS. This company? It's going to go to hell. The whole business will be shut down. Do you hear me? Do you understand?" Ian nodded fearfully. "Do your job, Ian, and please, PLEASE don't fuck this up."

Ian grabbed the box and put it into his satchel, turning to leave his boss' office. As he grasped the doorknob and turned, he heard his boss speak up one more time. "And, Ian..."

"Yes sir?"

"You know those stories about the Carapace-In-White?"

"Yes, sir."

"...Just keep in mind that not all of it is untrue."

"...Understood, sir."

"Godspeed."

...

Ian began running down the streets of the City, following the directions that the secretary gave him as he left the building. His heart pounded to the rhythm of his feet as he took a left, a right, and then a quick shortcut through the alleyways: he would make it to the address in record time. He'd make his boss proud. After a couple more stunts, he took a bit of time to catch his breath. He looked at the directions one more time.

Wait, what?

He read it once again and became confused as to what the hell it was saying.

"Spatial shift."

...What?

While trying to figure out the riddle of the directions, a small Carapace-boy grabbed his package and took off. Ian nearly had a heart attack as he watched the boy scurry into some apartment complex with his newfound trophy. Ian dashed into the building right after him, shouting out for the boy to stop.

"Hey, kid! Stop! I need that package! Slow down!"

The boy merely giggled in response. After climbing to the top floor, the small carapace-kid ran into the last room on the left, slamming it loudly behind him. Ian slowly walked to the door, opening it ever so gently so as to not alert his presence.

What he saw was extravagant.

The room had been completely remodeled into a bright, pool-table green. The walls were green, the floors were green, the ceiling was green... even the various pieces of furniture were colored green. In fact, the only thing not green was a tall figure, dressed completely in white. It sat down in an armchair by the window.

"Please, Mister Quickley, come in." he beckoned. Ian's eyes filled with horror upon realizing exactly who that was: The Carapace-In-White. For some ungodly reason, he found himself opening the door and closing it behind him, walking slowly to the chair opposite of the Carapace-In-White. His head was engorged to massive proportions, and was completely unmarked. No face could be found on his head, and it shone gently from the moonlight coming through the window. Ian caught himself staring, and somehow, so did his host. "It's not at all out of the ordinary for you to stare, you know. I am quite the spectacle." Ian began to reach out to touch the white-globe-head of the mythical-man before him. A white-gloved hand reached up with lightning speed and caught him, however. "I said it's okay to look. It's not okay to touch." Ian retreated his arm, and laid back in his seat. There was a plate of Twizzlers: his favorite kind of candy. His host gestured to it, wordlessly, and Ian took a strand and began nibbling it. His gracious host tented his fingers and continued.

"So, Mr Quickley, you are a very energetic young man, aren't you?" Ian nodded lightly while he ate his candy. "Yes, yes, I see. An employee in the Package Delivery business, urged by your mother to do something with your life. Quite unreliable, due to your sluggish-speed, and clumsy nature. Your boss was on the verge of firing you, until I made my request. Yes, yes, Ian, I made the request. A friend of mine collected the package for me, and I have it here, right beside me." He drummed his fingers on the package. "But really, I have a proposition for you. You are currently working under people who do not appreciate you, or see where you are going with your life, or have any idea of your capabilities. I offer a change. Work for me. You see, I am forming together a rather interesting group of individuals. All upstanding gentlemen with big dreams and interesting personalities, all with a very special past. It will pay well, it will keep you relatively safe, and there is an added... benefit."

Ian finished his first Twizzler and picked up a second. "A benefit?"

The carapace in white continued. "Yes, a benefit. How would you like it, Mister Quickley, if you could go anywhere and everywhere in the blink of an eye? To accelerate your body beyond that which is normal for a carapace. You might dub it some other name, such as 'Super Speed', but it is simply accelerated spatial shifting. What would you say to that?"

Ian stared wide-eyed at the man. "can you... you can give me that?"

The man laughed. "Haa Haa, of course I can, Mr Quickley. All you have to do, is sign..." A legal document with many large and complicated words appeared in a flash of green lightning. "Right here." A pen came from the man's inside pocket, and was offered to Ian. He took it in his hand and looked back at the document. After what felt like an eternity of internal conflict, on whether or not to sign or not, a somewhat foreign-thought entered into his mind. "Mother would be so proud, for once."

...So he signed. In a flash of more green electricity, Ian was engulfed in all green: the same green that covered the walls and floors. Ian felt his face, and looked in the reflection of the window: his face was also green, as were his hands. His whole body was green. The man in white laughed a bit more. "Hee Hee, excellent. Welcome to The Felt, Mr Quickley. You may call me Scratch: Doc Scratch," he pronounced it with a hollow-tone on the 'O', somehow. It tickled his ears. "As a member of the Felt, the name 'Ian Quickley' is far too large. Is there something I can call you, instead of that?"

Ian grinned. "My friends call me Itchy."

Doc Scratch laughed once more. "Hoo Hoo, then that shall be your new name. And," he took the package that Ian Quickley was going to deliver, opening it carefully," I believe this is yours." Inside the box was a yellow hat with a 1 printed on the front. A tag was attached on the brim; 'To Itchy'. Itchy giggled a bit, and after inspecting the inside for anything dangerous, he put on the hat. "And one more thing, Itchy..." Scratch added. "You see that mansion in the distance?"

"Yes, boss."

"Meet me at the front door in four seconds."

Itchy looked at the mansion in the distance, and figured it was at least 30 miles away. He turned to Doc Scratch, but noticed he was already gone in a flash of green-lightning. Itchy panicked, and dashed for the door...

And to the streets...

And then, to the manor. In three seconds, Itchy ran 30 miles.

"Holy shit."

"Welcome to The Felt Manor, Itchy." Doc Scratch said, gesturing to the doors. "Welcome to your new home."