Underground General Manager Cyan Winters stared blankly out the massive picture window of the executive suite at Pearson Metropolitan Park. He didn’t often use the suite as his office, preferring the more purpose built confines of his office in the Underground’s administrative building a few blocks away. He had come here to reflect on the 2034 season and to contemplate what was to come. With the baseball season over and London winter not being conducive to most other events the stadium might hold there was next to no activity. Winters’ felt a certain tranquility as he looked out across the desolate ballpark through the cold November rain which splashed lightly against the window.

He recalled a memo he had received recently that informed him that the TFL had finally finished construction of the Pearson Metropolitan station. The station began construction along with the stadium and was intended to finish with it, a fairly important requirement given the station was built into the park behind the center field grandstands. Through the magic of public works however, the transit station lagged behind schedule and over budget. Luckily the station was able to operate more or less fully by the beginning of the season, but guests arriving were guided through a maze of plywood barriers. Laminated paper signs stapled to the wood welcomed fans, offered directions, and reminded people to not leave their bags alone. It was….not the grand entrance Winters had expected based on the TFL promises. Lesson learned – public works in England was as bad as in America, his home.

Alas, the station was completed now. Winters eye’s drifted toward center field. He had been invited to the ribbon cutting but had sent a delegation instead and so he had not actually seen the finished product. He knew well what the original designs looked like – both from the street and from the ballpark – but cynical as he was about that project now he doubted the final result would match the grandiose designs. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the grandstand and the station, barely noticeable, beyond. “Son of a bitch…”

He grabbed his phone from the table beside him and pulled up his contacts, scrolling through name after name until finally stopping on “TFL – Idiot Manager”. The affectionate title was granted to the TFL Project Manager, an all together non-descript middle aged Londoner named Alfred Beadberry. Winters’ impression of the man was never particularly high, but had fallen each successive month the station remained a wooden wonder. With a sign, he pressed the green phone icon to begin dialing. “Hello, this is Alfr-” answered a thick London accent. Not bothering with formalities or even to introduce himself, Winters cut in; “Alfred where is the third level?”. What he had noticed looking out across the field was that the finished project was, well, short. The original concept art had the station playing a prominent part in the outfield profile of the part, accomplished in part with an impressive third level which would feature a false set of rails and a mock Underground tube car – the real tracks and trains were contained in the first two levels – as well as administrative offices for TFL and Underground employees. The finished project appeared to be entirely missing this level, leaving the outfield with a strange gap and a lack of expected character.

“I…uh…what? Oh…Pearson, yes? Well, uh…you see, the budget. We decided we could uh…house the staff elseware more cheaply. The third level…cost overruns..” Alfred was still stammering his way through an attempt at a response when Winters hung up on him.

He took a moment, focusing on his breathing. Should they sue? Or put up the money themselves to have the work done right? His jaw clenched tightly at that thought. And Sir John Fowler surely wouldn’t be willing to do that anyway. Looking up at his phone and back out to the center field grandstand he was struck by a thought. There sure was a lot of space unexpectedly available out there now…

Back down to his phone contacts, he scrolled back a few letters to find “Sir John” and dialed. “John – it’s Winters. How’d you like to put 5000 more butts in seats every game?”

And that was that.