DarkBeast.com :: Forums :: Post New Message :: Board
This message Progeny #4... was posted by Finny on Friday, September 6, 2002 at 23:50.
Sunny came home to her favorite room
Sunny sat down in the kitchen
She opened up a book and a box of tools
Sunny came home with a mission...
She says "Days go by I'm hypnotized
I'm walking on a wire
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind
Into the fire"
Sunny came home with a list of names
She didn't believe in transcendence
"It's time for a few small repairs," she said
Sunny came home with a vengeance...
--"Sunny Came Home", Shawn Colvin
----------
Often, just by looking at the magazine rack in a waiting room, you could tell quite a bit about the doctor's personality. Of course, this one had the usual suspects--the major news and travel magazines, Sports Illustrated, and an unfortunately-obligatory copy of Reader's Digest. However, it also had technology- and computer-oriented magazines, youth culture ones, International Music Scene, and even Electronic Gaming Monthly (the ones with Tomb Raider bikini covers were casually kept behind more non-threatening fare).
Though this particular doctor rarely had patients under 20, a very up-to-date assortment of toys were spread across a child-high table, in a corner of the room. There were some cars, dolls, and toddler-tortured Lair Legion figures, but everything else was secretly educational in nature.
Nondescript white walls were filled out by many-shades-of-blue carpeting and chair-cushioning. The waiting room itself was surprisingly large: two U-shaped groupings of chairs were back-to-back, across from the secretary's counter. The room's paintings were focused more on the creative uses of color, rather than actually depicting anything.
Based on those details--the fact that it was all very up-to-date; the modern design and culturally in-tune touches--one might guess that this office belonged to a doctor just out of medical school. And they'd be wrong.
It was the sixty-fifth floor of the prestigious St. Silver's Hospital: the neurosurgery wing. And it was used by the man that nineteen-year-old Samantha Bridges was looking for--namely, her father.
As ever, the people scattered across the waiting room gave her The Look. Maybe it was because they'd never seen someone so young in a white coat. Maybe it was because she couldn't help but walk around like she owned the place. Maybe it was because she was gorgeous (though she never thought of herself that way). She had long, curly, natural-blonde hair that was almost white, and a perfectly-sculpted body. She was comfortably modeling white Capri's, a pink tanktop, and sandals without socks. A clipboard was in one hand; a sugarless lollipop in the other. But her gentle features were impossible to read...was it detached professionalism? Boredom? Arrogance?
It was barely after nine in the morning. The TV was softly droning on, and everyone was deathly quiet. A nurse/secretary--not much older than Samantha, with dark hair and freckles--nodded to her.
Samantha nodded back. "Hey, Jodi."
Jodi was impressed that she warranted a greeting: Samantha was famous for breezing by everyone. They all loved her, but she was permanently set on "distant". "Looking for your dad?"
"Yeah, I need him to look at something. I'm pulling an ER shift--and the on-call neurologist vanished on us." She frowned; and tried to look angry, wrinkling her nose--but she just ended up looking cute.
"He'll be free in..." She searched for a schedule. "Well, in a few minutes."
"Mmkay." Samantha pulled her hair over her shoulder, and--realizing that she had a rare break--decided to relax a bit. A shoulder slumped down, but other than that, she looked exactly the same.
Not that she could really unwind. Samantha had exactly two modes: work hard and play hard; no in-between. And, these days, getting into either took quite a bit of effort. If she broke her momentum, she wouldn't be able to get it back.
She'd been on autopilot for longer than she wanted to remember. Class half the time, and St. Silver's the other half. She told herself to feel good about it: she was the youngest ER intern, but she was also the highest-rated. They were talking about having her skip a year or two of medical school, since she had more experience than anyone else in her class. But for some reason, it all felt like drudgery. She couldn't get into it like she used to.
Her parents were a bit worried about her--they thought it was too much, too soon--but she'd done enough normal-girl stuff to get them off her back. She'd dated a parade of guys, she'd gone to all the right parties and done all the crazy stuff you're supposed to do at that age...but she'd been on autopilot then, too. Her body was into it, but never her heart. She was an unwilling ice queen, and she'd been that way ever since--
"--Michael?"
The waiting room's TV was virtually mute, but it was turned to a news-channel, which was showing a courtroom. Apparently, everyone was just being allowed in--the camera-man had to be on foot, since the picture was shaking so much. And they were trying to zoom in on someone...for a split-second, they just got the back of his hand. It had three black lines on it, which formed a triangle, with another design inside it. She'd know that DNA "tattoo" anywhere.
Then doors slammed shut, and the cameraman was forcibly pushed out of the room. A white-haired guard mouthed the words "Wait outside".
Words flashed on the screen, explaining what was going on--and with that, her life was back to normal. The dull, sterile sheen that had covered everything was suddenly gone. Her father's voice was a world away, and she didn't even notice when he plucked the clipboard from her hand, to look at it.
For the first time, it felt like summer...
Progeny #4
Birthright
TV cameramen were lined up like a firing squad, facing a row of failed models who were posting as reporters. In the background was a massive off-white stone building, with a street-wide open staircase leading up to its doors. It looked like it belonged in ancient Greece, with its ridged pillars and clean angles. The appearance wasn't far off: many of the legal traditions practiced in the County Courthouse had certainly originated in that era.
On the sidewalk near the stairs, less photogenic journalists were milling about, drinking coffee out of paper cups and talking on cheap cel phones. None of them were willing to wander more than a few feet away from the staircase.
Summer wind was making their clothing billow. They were in the more urban section of the Shelton district, on a street nicknamed Government Row. Compared to the rest of Parodiopolis, it was fairly low-lying, so there wasn't much to block the Atlantic's air-currents.
One of the journalists was the first to notice. He swung his head back, emptying his cup in one gulp. Then, he made a half-hearted attempt at crumpling it, and threw it into the ashtray on top of a garbage can, without looking. As he took a step forward, every head in the crowd turned towards the stairs.
It was like the first few seconds of a horse race: everyone was finding their footing and vying for position. They mobbed up the stairs, trying not to get trampled in the process. Ambient conversation rocketed up to full-blown, loudly-spoken questioning, though the man they were asking wasn't yet in earshot.
Michael McKinley was flanked by a small army of legal personnel. His dark red hair was thick and wavy, and the wind ghosted through it without ever seeming to mess it up. Having never gotten a proper chance to mourn his father and sister, he was wearing all-black: a long coat, slacks, and a polo shirt. A snug pair of sunglasses shielded his eyes from the photographer's flashbulbs. As ever, his expression was stone-hard, unflinching and nearly expressionless.
The lead lawyer was a criminal-defense superstar who looked more like a quarterback than an attorney (the guy was at least six-foot-five, with a constant five o'clock shadow, dark hair, and the square-jawed look). Instinctively, he'd ended up leading the party down the stairs...so, he stepped forward and allowed the press to circle him.
He flashed a perfect smile to the reporters, held up a hand to calm them down, and said "Michael's been cleared of all the charges--the first, and only murder was self-defense. They were wrong about him committing the second one," he stated simply, and then added "As we'd been saying all along."
That set them off. An avalanche of questions followed...
"--suing the city for wrongful arrest?"
"Is it true that he's selling his life story to Miramax, or--"
"--any comment on how this will affect KinLabs and the econ--"
"--rumors he'll be testifying on the Senate's committee for prison conditions--"
"Any truth to the tabloid reports that you're seeing singer Gracie Mart--"
"--radical new direction for KinLabs, now that he's back?"
"--true that he got out because his father made campaign donations to both--"
"--selling KinLabs, because he doesn't want the responsib--"
"Are you worried about retaliation from other supercriminals, since you killed--"
The lead lawyer chose not to answer, and stepped back, as if he were opening the floor for Michael. He gave Michael a questioning look, and Michael shrugged "yes". He didn't need to step forward; his lawyers all backed off, leaving him alone in the middle of the crowd.
He opened his mouth, preparing to say something, and everything got quiet.
Michael momentarily looked down at the ground, as if he had to build up the energy to deal with it all. He ran a hand through his hair, raised his head, and took off his sunglasses, revealing his bright, misty grey eyes.
"I just...look, the police made a mistake. I don't hold it against them. I just want to forget about all this. My entire family is dead, and I have no idea how to deal with that in..." He fumbled for a gesture, and for words to go with it. "...in the context of my everyday life. I haven't gotten a chance to deal with it, because of all this weird stuff. Being in prison and waiting for trial, being accused of killing the other Gemini Twin...I don't care about that anymore. It's over. It was just keeping me away from my life, and I don't want to think about it anymore. Things can't go back to normal for me, but I want to find a new normal."
On the other side of the expansive stairs, another crowd had gathered. They were surrounding a thin, fifty-something black man with greying stubble on his head, and an attractive Hispanic woman in her late twenties. They were Dylan Monterey and Lynn Cartana, the riding DA's on the McKinley case.
Monterey was already speaking to the reporters. "--our deepest apologies to Mr. McKinley, and his friends and fam--uhh, and his friends, for putting them through all that questioning. We wish him nothing but the best. And we'll be conducting a department-wide investigation, to make sure that nothing like this ever happens again."
Lynn felt a tingle in the back of her neck, and looked up--Michael's lawyer was answering more questions, and Michael himself was looking directly at her. Even from a distance, she could tell that he had tired-looking eyes...but they were also hard, like they'd been forged in something unbelievably hot. He gave her a look of simple understanding, but she wasn't sure what he understood.
His response to the reporters had surprised her...when a defendant was wrongfully accused, they tended to go postal on the DA's afterwards. Especially when they were young and rich. But Michael was showing a maturity that she wouldn't have thought possible, especially considering his kind of lifestyle...
It was a slow-motion moment. Eye contact across the crowd, across the controversy. It wasn't romantic at all, but it was very meaningful. In that frozen shard of time, with the wind slowing down to a gentle push, and the cameramen gradually rising to their tiptoes for a better shot, she was surprised by how...powerful...everything looked.
She'd taken art history for her mandatory Fine Arts credit in college (she couldn't draw to save her life). The only thing she remembered from the class was how certain artists made everything look "of a piece"--how everything in a picture could have the same feel. And now, looking at him, and looking at Parodiopolis rising up behind him, she couldn't help but think that they went together perfectly.
For some stupid reason, she got another memory...the time when her little brother had been carrying a stack of plates and dropped them, breaking every single one. She hadn't actually seen it happen--she'd come running in, and the way he looked up at her, it perfectly explained how he'd caused the mess. The person and the situation were inextricably tangled up. Somehow, Michael also reminded her of that.
Then Michael was subtly rammed through the crowd by his lawyers, and they ushered him into a waiting stretch limo. None got in with him, though; there was a smaller limo lined up behind his.
And with that, the case was officially over. Lynn was suddenly standing there all by herself. Dylan was hailing a cab and waiting for her to catch up.
She started off towards him. Something was on the tip of her tongue, on the tip of her mind...it was very familiar, but she couldn't identify it. Thinking about the whole situation, she couldn't help but view it as the tip of a very, very large iceberg, with much more hidden under the surface...
And though she had a million questions, the prominent one was this: You know there's something more here--so what are you going to do about it?
-------
As soon as he got into the limo, Michael was presented with an outstretched hand, belonging to a person he'd never seen before.
An older, dark-suited man with steel-grey hair was smiling at him, and sitting on the limo's ash-colored cushioning. He had an extreme tan that spoke of extended beach vacations. The door abruptly slammed shut, and Michael hesitantly shook the man's hand.
There was a third person in the limo: he wore tan slacks and a burgandy polo shirt. Michael relaxed when he saw him. It was Kevin Lau, the current CEO of KinLabs. He was a cheerful-looking Filipino man, in his late forties. He'd played basketball during high school and college, and it showed: he was lean and far too tall. His legs took up most of the flooring between the facing seats. Michael was sitting by himself, with the other two on the opposing side.
Kevin was the first to speak. "Michael, this is Anthony Grederich. He's the head of the law firm that's representing you."
Grederich nodded. "Sorry I couldn't be at your hearing in-person, but something came up...it always does, right?" He laughed gruffly. "Everything go okay?"
Michael said yes. "I'm a free man again," he tried to joke, but it didn't come off right. He was far too tense. The night before, he'd performed an illegal act of espionage and murder in another country, for a man called DuPlis--and he was still expecting DuPlis to sell him out. He didn't know exactly which Intelligence organization DuPlis worked for, but with a single press release, Michael could give the US government a major black eye. Of course, he'd never actually do that--Michael had his own secret to protect. Regardless, he couldn't see them taking the risk, and letting him live...
Any second now, he expected laser-fire to blast through the bulletproof limo. In a city like Parodiopolis, with that many tall buildings, snipers could be anywhere.
Grederich seemed to sense that Michael was unhappy. "How did Carson do?", he asked, referring to the quarterback-lookalike lawyer. "Were you happy with him?"
"No, yeah, he was great," Michael stammered. "So, uh...what are we doing next? Can I go home?"
Grederich took a breath, and held it for just a moment too long--he was hesitating. "We have to do some paperwork first. Just a bit."
"Oh. Okay."
Kevin got a purposeful look, and leaned over to Grederich. "Maybe we should do it over at your office, instead of at KinLabs. Michael might not be ready to go back there, after..."
After seeing my father murdered in his office, and then shoving his killer out of the window with a desk? Michael tried to act appropriately stricken--but seeing his father die had been the biggest thrill of his life. His father's alter-ego Royale would never threaten anyone, ever again...
Slowly nodding his understanding, Grederich said "Right, right...yeah, we can do it over there. It's safer that way, anyway. We don't have to courier that stuff over. Okay." He lowered the glass partition, and gave new instructions to the driver. Michael wondered what "stuff" he was talking about.
"That reminds me..." Kevin reached under the seat, and pulled out a small manila envelope, about the size of a novel. "Your personal effects," he stated, presenting it to Michael.
Michael flicked it open, held it at an angle, and shook the contents into the palm of his hand. His keys, wallet, and watch were in it, along with a bit of spare change. That was all he had on him when he'd been arrested.
Seeing all of that made Michael a bit more high-strung, but he wasn't sure why. He felt like he was forgetting something. As he went to see how much money he had in his wallet, he was surprised to see Samantha's senior picture staring back at him. It had been slipped into a photo-slot, behind a thin plastic sheet. The limo's interior suddenly felt hotter. But he knew it was psychosomatic--among the genetic improvements that he'd inherited was a bio-temperature-control; it was impossible for him to get very hot or cold. For the first time in almost a year, he suddenly felt like he wanted to live, even if it was just to see her for a few minutes...
The buildings they went by were steadily growing taller, as they headed into Carrington, the financial district. Grederich's features lit up, and he rummaged in his briefcase. "Why don't you take a look at this? I think it might cheer you up."
It was a copy of today's Daily Trombone. It was folded in half, so Michael could only see the bottom segment of the front page. For some reason, the normally-easygoing Kevin Lau gave Grederich a bit of a glower, like he didn't want Michael to see the paper.
It wasn't anything too harmful--just a piece on singer/songwriter Gracie Martins. While many modern music stars were backed up with nothing but a synthesizer, and surrounded by special-effects and dancing, she could actually play an instrument. And for some reason, she was making comments supporting Michael.
He asked a serious question. "...do I know her?"
Kevin chuckled. "No, no...but I think she has a crush on you or something."
Michael gave the both of them a brief "Why should I care?" look, but then he realized that he'd better at least feign interest. Though he and Samantha had never had an official relationship, he felt like he was betraying her, as he awkwardly said "I, uhh, I obviously wouldn't complain if she let me thank her by taking her to the islands, or giving her a one-on-one tour of the mansion's twenty-nine bedrooms...but for now, I just want to take a day or two off, and figure out what to do next."
For a split-second, they didn't say anything--he thought he'd overcompensated; that he was out of character. But no, they were lost in nostalgia. Back before they were wedding-ring-strangled or whatever. Old people tended to do that.
Kevin came out of it first. He glanced over at Grederich. "Memories, huh?"
Grederich broke into a massive grin. "Memories nothin', that was just last week! You think I'm tan, you should see the girl..."
Michael winced a bit. Oh, God, they were going to get into conquest-discussion mode.
Kevin picked up on Michael's unease, and changed the subject. "Anyway, maybe you can send her a thank-you card or something."
"Yeah, or...something..." He trailed off as he flipped the paper over. Kevin reached, offering to take it away, but it was too late. It was this morning's edition. Michael read the headline aloud. "Bad Boy Billionaire: Back!"
No wonder Kevin hadn't wanted him to see the paper. Grederich searched for a reply. "That's--you know how that paper is, all sensationalistic..." He quickly found something new to talk about. "But, there's more good news! You aren't the only one who just got his freedom back..."
Michael waited for a few moments, giving them a chance to say more--when they didn't, he asked "What?"
Grederich looked at Kevin Lau, who rubbed his neck. "Well, I didn't want to dump too much information on you at once, but...Brian was kidnapped, when he was on a trip in France. Some other kids were, too. But don't worry, they're flying back now..."
Michael tried to look surprised. "That's...geez, that's horrible...are they okay?"
"Yeah, they are."
"What happened? Did they escape, or...?"
"No, someone...well, I guess that someone saved them, or something like that. They aren't sure yet. I--"
"Hey," Grederich ducked down a bit, looking out the window. "We're here!"
------------
As the limo's door closed behind them, Michael realized that he still had no idea why they were here, beyond some vague "paperwork" excuse.
The building was indistinguishable from any other office complex--it was a square-topped mid-level skyscraper, and the clouds reflecting in it looked like a screen-saver. Traffic mercilessly shot down the street behind them, and they started towards a huge bank of revolving doors.
This is the perfect place to kill me, Michael thought. They were on a wide-open sidewalk, surrounded by skyscrapers--a sniper's delight. He just hoped that no-one else would get hurt in the process.
Michael took his time getting to the doors, letting the other two get ahead of him. Less chance they'd get shot, that way. He waited for them to get it over with.
And then he thought about Samantha, and realized that he wasn't ready to die yet. He had to at least see her first. But for some reason, he was ready--too quickly--to completely give up on himself.
He knew why. He was doing exactly what his father had always done--lying, and avoiding consequences. Michael was guilty. He should be back in prison. He'd actually been happier there. For all of his failures, he deserved to be punished.
But it'd have to wait. He quickly stepped inside, and was immediately surrounded by marble and light, breezy colors. Just then, Kevin Lau had turned his head, to see if Michael was still behind him. Kevin was clearly wondering why he'd hesitated.
Michael shrugged helplessly. "Been about a year since I've seen a woman in a tanktop...gotta get used to it again."
Kevin grinned, and they kept walking. Everyone in the front lobby went silent upon seeing them. Grederich was angling towards an elevator, which was being held open for them. Michael sighed--no wonder all those fictional superheroes were playboys in their secret identities. They were constantly distracted by their double-life, and the only way to cover it was to say they were thinking about what men thought about most of the time: women.
They walked between two lines of security guards, who were acting like this was a military occasion. Grederich nodded to most of them, firing off quick personal comments; calling them by name. But he was still all-business.
The elevator itself was large, and they easily fit in. Michael stuck his hands in his pockets, and felt his keys. Once again, he got an uneasy feeling, like he was forgetting something--or rather, that he was missing something that he should have.
"This won't take too long," Grederich assured them. "You just have to sign all of three papers. No big deal or anything."
Kevin looked like he was purposely trying to keep his mouth shut. Michael didn't like this at all, Grederich had been acting cagey ever since he'd been asked for details. Still, if it was anything really bad, Kevin would've said something by now. He'd known Kevin since he was a kid, the guy was like an uncle...
The elevator rang open, and Michael made sure he was the first to step out. He glanced around--no deathtrap here, either. Yet.
Grederich briskly clapped his hands together. "Let's get to it!"
They power-walked down the law firm's exquisite halls, which had alternating tiled and white-carpeted flooring and angelic egg-white walls. Expensively-dressed and pressed men and women shuffled out of their way, making room and shooting off greetings to their boss.
Some of the braver ones joined them as they walked. They updated Grederich on various situations, and he handled them all perfectly. Under his sunglasses, Michael was rolling his eyes. This was capitalism at its best: trying to convince everyone that they had everything under control. The clients, the customers, the public...they were all seeing an act. Your money and patronage is safe with us, we know what we're doing, really we do...
Michael knew why they called them hangers-on: they were at the fringes of the crowd, basking in the glow of power. He couldn't entirely blame them, but it still put him off.
Ahead, in a hall-intersection, Michael saw a shadow fall on the floor. It was coming from the right-to-left hall that was up ahead of them. The person the shadow belonged to couldn't be seen--but he had to be just around the corner.
As casually as he could, Michael worked his way to the front of their small group. He thought he heard a set of footsteps up ahead. The shadow kept approaching--they were going to run into each other. Assassins?
Just as they were about to pass through the intersection, Michael prematurely stuck his foot out. If there was more than one of them, he could use this one as a body-shield, and maybe grab his weapon.
The person tripped, and Michael caught them. But they weren't shot at. The side-hall was empty.
And he was holding a short Asian girl, who had chic black glasses and an edgy haircut, which perfectly matched her tight black jeans and "antique" rock'n'roll t-shirt. She dropped the papers she was carrying, and his sunglasses clattered to the floor. The group behind Michael stopped in their tracks.
He'd expected it to be a guy--so he'd seen nothing wrong with grabbing "him" around the chest. Now, she was half-fallen-over in his arms: and thankfully, no-one else could see that he'd accidentally grabbed a handful of cleavage. He quickly let go, and helped her back to her feet. Both of them were apologizing at the same time. She was bright red.
Grederich was blustering. No doubt he was about to chew her out. Michael knew that this was his own fault, so he cut him off at the pass. "I'm really, really sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going..."
She knelt down to pick up her papers, and he helped. Her voice was as adorable as her face. And her eyes were nailed to the floor. "No, it's okay, I'm such an idiot..."
Michael could feel it coming. He'd seen it a million times before, with his father. Grederich was trying to impress Michael, and losing control like this...he'd come down hard on the girl, because he needed someone to blame. Grederich spat out "This is Mr. McKinley, he's a very important client, and--"
Most of the time, Michael was very quiet. He tended to make indirect, fleeting eye-contact. But he met Grederich's eyes with a rock-hard stare and, in a very firm and deep voice, interrupted with "I really don't want her to get in trouble for something I did."
It sounded like he'd spoken into a microphone. Grederich took a half a step back, wide-eyed. His sycophantic crowd followed suit, acting like dominoes. Only Kevin wasn't taken aback: but he'd seen the patented McKinley Intensity before.
In some distant corner of Grederich's mind, the customer-is-always-right mantra kicked in. "...of course not. No, completely harmless, uhh..." He mumbled the rest.
As ever, Kevin Lau stepped in, to keep things calm and moving. "Anyway, let's get that paperwork signed."
Grederich and Michael nodded. The girl had all of her things gathered up now, and continued not looking at Michael as she thanked him and quickly walked off.
Michael was once again his usual quiet, non-confrontational self. Grederich led them into his office, though he was still shaken. He'd hoped that the boy was different from his father, but for a few seconds there, he'd sensed the exact same sheer force of will...
-----------
"Well, by now, I'm sure you've guessed why you're here...your inheritance."
Grederich's office was covered in powder-blue carpeting, though the section around his desk was tiled. The walls were a very light grey. It was a huge room; thirty or forty people could easily have crowded in. But it was mostly empty space. Aside from a wet bar and a massive bookcase, the office was pretty sparse. The walk from the door to his desk, and the leather chairs in front of it, was a good twenty-five feet. One entire wall consisted of oversized window panes. They could see the Atlantic from the chairs, which they were now sitting in.
Michael had been stunned silent. His inheritance? That was the most obvious reason for him to be here, but it had never crossed his mind...
Grederich was now sitting behind his desk--he couldn't keep from smiling. "And if you're wondering how much, it's...well, it's pretty much everything."
Any sane person would've jumped at the chance to be a multi-billionaire. Michael couldn't resist fast enough. "But my trust fund--I mean, I don't need--"
"Our hands are tied," Grederich said, shrugging it off. "Your father's will is very clear. We have to do what it says."
It was blood money. Royale had killed, stolen, terrorized, and done anything he had to, to protect his precious, Godforsaken financial empire. Michael had never wanted any part of it.
"Originally, you and your sister would've split everything. But since she died just a few months after your father, we didn't have time to pass the reigns over to her. She had things to do in New York, she kept putting it off. But the will says that in event of you being the sole survivor, you get it all."
Michael didn't know what to say. He was desperately searching for an excuse. "Aren't there, uhh, protocols and stuff, for when people inherit young? So we don't run everything into the ground?"
Grederich laughed, nodding. He wasn't used to seeing stark honesty in someone so young. "Normally, yeah. But your father just listed a few basic guidelines for you to follow. And I've seen your financial history...compared to most rich kids, you're horribly cheap." He laughed again. "I think it's in safe hands." Then, as if a thought struck him, he added "But, it might not be a bad idea to splurge just a little bit...after all this, you need a vacation. Maybe go on a cruise or something, and you could take someone with you...like Gracie Martins..."
Why was he talking about that rockstar again? But then Michael picked up on something he'd just said. "Wait, guidelines? Like what?"
"Nothing you need to worry about yet. It won't be 'til you're older."
Michael uncharacteristically squirmed. What hoops was his father going to make him jump through? Knowing him, they'd go to further some posthumous secret agenda...
Kevin Lau spoke up--he could tell that Michael was getting uncomfortable, again. "Don't feel guilty about it...I know, you probably thought you'd get a chance to work up to it, to earn it all. But you lost him early, and you just can't help it."
"Let me get the papers, and we'll be done in no time." Grederich stood up, and walked to a corner behind his desk. There was a barely-noticeable door...he opened it, and it led into a small washroom. "I don't show many people this, but why not? C'mon." He waved them over.
By the time Michael and Kevin had arrived, Grederich was pushing on the entire back wall of the room. The line where the ceiling met the wall was actually a seam. That section of wall swung open on hinges, revealing an elongated walk-in closet. It opened just like a garage door. It stopped partway, and Grederich just ducked under it. They did the same.
"This," Grederich said grandly, "Is our very own private-holding room." There were sets of shelves running alongside each wall. Files and bagged items filled them. Michael glanced at a file--they all had ridiculously long serial numbers; without names. Clever: if anyone breaks in here, looking for a particular person's file, it'd take them forever to find it. They'd have to go through every single file.
At the end of the closet, Grederich moved an empty cardboard file-box. A safe was embedded underneath it. He looked back up at them, chuckling. "No peeking, now."
Both Kevin and Michael turned around. That was when he noticed that some of the files did have names on them. Just the brand-new ones, it looked like. They must replace name-labels with number-labels only after the files are moved into this secret room. He glanced around the files...quite a few famous people. Including Gracie Martins, the singer that Grederich was trying to set him up with. She was a client of his?
Michael raised an eyebrow. Innocent coincidence? Maybe she just asked Grederich to introduce them? This was a huge law firm, with a few hundred lawyers...they didn't necessarily have to know each other. Or maybe he was up to something more. It looked like he was hiding evidence in here (the bagged-and-tagged items), so he could be capable of anything...
"Okay, got 'em." The safe door had been opened. Grederich was reaching down into the floor, and he pulled out three mangled leather binders. Each was held shut by a flimsy, loose-fitting leather strap. This was definitely a great place to hide something, very few people would think to look here. He wondered what else was in the safe. Jimmy Hoffa's remains? The third Fatima prophecy? Naked pictures of every President for the last forty years?
They worked their way out, and he closed it up behind them. Then, he sat the three binders down on his desk.
"These are all ownership papers. First, you have the McKinley family fortune. Then, you have the KinLabs certificate, and a founder-level holding in the Twelve Labors Foundation."
Michael gaped. "I...own KinLabs?"
Kevin slapped him on the back. "You will in about five minutes."
Grederich nodded. He held up a folder, and said "The charitable Twelve Labors Foundation...well, your father was a founding member, of course. You don't own it, but founding members are guaranteed a seat on the board. And for when they die, they're allowed to nominate someone to replace them. In this case, your father chose you."
This was too much. Michael was struggling to take it all in.
"As for KinLabs...well, you do have final authority on some things, but until you're older, your power will be a bit limited."
He nodded, relieved. "That's fine with me...I really don't know anything about running a corporation. I mean, I took business classes at Somersdale, but..."
And then Grederich reached into a drawer, and pulled out a small sack. "And before I forget--the police gave this to me earlier."
He extracted a manila envelope, just like the one that had contained Michael's personal effects.
"Your father's," Grederich said solemnly. The contents were similar: a wallet, a cel phone, a checkbook, and keys.
Keys.
Michael felt something jolt through his nervous system. He'd been antsy ever since he'd seen his own set of keys--and now he knew why. Attached to his father's keyring was a black, teardrop-shaped "remote control" for a car. It could open the trunk, lock or unlock the doors, and start it from a distance. But it was more than that. It was secretly a cybernetic device that could control all of his father's secret technology.
Including the Royale suit.
His father had the keychain on his person when he died. The key to some of the most destructive equipment on Earth had been sitting in some evidence room, gathering dust. He fought off every urge in his body to just snatch it off the table. He couldn't make it look suspicious. But in that tiny device laid an infinite amount of power. And just having it sitting out in the open was insane...
Grederich looked at Michael. "Do you want the sack for it, or...?" Then he realized that carrying a paper-sack would look fairly silly, for a multi-billionaire. "Uh, actually, I think I have a spare briefcase lying around..."
"No, I'll just put them in my coat," Michael said, trying not to sound too impatient.
Slowly, Grederich pulled a piece of paper out of each binder. "Well, you should probably sign all this first. Then it'll be official."
Michael winced. He didn't want to sign, but he had to get his hands on that keychain. Then again, if he was going to protect the secret, and try to get some good out of what his father had built...he was going to have to own it.
Against his better judgment, Michael quickly signed.
After that, he casually brushed his father's belongings into his hand, and pocketed it all. Except the keychain. For some reason, it was stuck to his hand. He couldn't risk looking to see why--he just crossed his arms, acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
Kevin Lau stood up. "I hate to do this, but I'm running late...if I leave the office for too long, it'll be anarchy." He reached out to shake Michael's hand. Michael didn't shake with his usual hand, as the keychain was buzzing like mad in it. Kevin seemed a bit surprised, but he didn't really register it. "Nice to have you back...boss." He winked, and left.
With everything over, Grederich started on what must have been his planned closing speech. "Michael, you know...you remind me of someone. John F. Kennedy never wanted to be in politics. That was for his older brother, John Jr. But he died in the war, and the responsibility all fell to JFK. I actually met him once, you know, when I was much younger."
Michael nodded absently. He was still trying to pry the keychain off of his palm. It felt like it was gnawing through his hand. Of course--it was the hand with the DNA "tattoo" on it. It was actually a genetic marking tag, and the keychain had recognized it. He'd experienced this before, with his armor...it was neurotronically linking itself to his brainwaves, via his nervous system. It'd give him complete control over the device, but it also made him want to scream.
"Families get in positions of power by putting themselves at risk...so they can get hurt more than others. You know that better than any of us. Right now, maybe you feel like your world is ending--but you'll get through it."
He stopped struggling. He knew it was for the best...once it had slaved itself to him, no-one else would be able to use the technology. The device wasn't physically interacting with his body--it was just attuning itself to his brainwaves.
"I've been single for most of my life, and I never had much of a family...let me tell you how lucky you were. That's where all your direction comes from."
Michael wondered if Grederich knew that JFK's father had been a Nazi sympathizer (which had killed his political career), and that he'd manipulated the stock market, in the days before it was government-regulated. Though to his credit, he'd helped reform it--FDR had reasoned that it'd take a thief to stop the stealing. But, knowing that JFK had gotten beyond that background gave Michael hope...
God smiled on Michael, as a phone-call interrupted Grederich's tirade. At first, he appeared irritable and uninterested--then, he became much more attentive. A minute later, he put the phone back in its cradle. The keychain device was finally inert again, and Michael shoved it in his pants-pocket. For better or for worse, it was all his now. The money. The secret. The power.
Grederich's normally-flaky tone darkened. "There's a situation down at the Twelve Labors Foundation office...they need a senior board member present, to decide something. You're it."
"Me? But I just started, I'm not senior yet..."
"You inherited your father's position, remember?"
"I don't...I mean, I'll do it, but shouldn't they get someone else?" Someone who knows what they're doing?
"Most of their people are at a charity ball on the West Coast, and they can't be reached."
Confidence cut through his flustered worrying. "Okay, sure." Michael stood up, and then remembered something. "Wait, I don't even have a car..."
"It's still stuck in the police impound, but you can use your father's...it's in our garage, the next building over. I'll call ahead for you."
Michael felt really, really weird about using that car...but he didn't have a choice. "Okay. And, uhh...thanks for everything."
Grederich grinned. "No problem. But you'd better hurry."
Michael nodded, and sprinted for the door. God only knew what he was getting into this time...
------------
Early evening in Paris: the sun was hidden behind the horizon, but the sky was still clear-blue. A warm wind whipped through the empier-than-usual streets. People in no particular hurry strolled through picturesque, foliage-filled neighborhoods. Laughter and lovers drifted from around every corner.
A woman in a dark-blue rental car sighed...she'd always wanted to come here, but not like this. She was approaching a city block that contained several small offices. One was a plain-looking, three-story building that consisted of earth-tone-colored bricks. It had a small parking lot next to it--she pulled in. The lot was virtually empty.
Merie Velescor stepped onto the warm pavement, flinching. The air wasn't that hot, but compared to what she was used to, it was an oven. She had brown eyes and shoulder-length brown hair that looked very wide, and easily framed her face. Though she was almost thirty, Merie was very petite, almost girlish. She wore a blue skirt and a puffy white shirt.
The building wasn't marked, except for a number above the front entrance. There was a small ID-card scanner in the door's handle. She took hers out and ran it through. With a buzz, it opened.
She walked in, and found herself faced with two sets of grey stairs. One went up, and one went down. They hadn't bothered to have a front desk?
At least they had the air conditioner on. She took a breath of the cool breeze, and marched up the stairs. Before she even got to the top, she heard voices. In French, someone said "Must be the--" she missed the rest, but caught up again with "--go see, and if I'm wrong, you can use the company car for a month."
A man started down the stairs, and nearly ran over her. She couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise.
He was light-haired, tall, and in good shape, and wore a neon-green shirt with black slacks. "Oh, I'm sorry. You must be miss, uhh..." He tried to figure out how to pronounce it. "Miss Vlezz-korr?"
"'Vuh-lesser," she corrected him. "Marie Velescor."
"Right. I'm Alex Shorr." He motioned for her to follow him up the stairs. "So, how long have you been with Interpol?"
"Three years...yourself?"
"Just five," he shrugged. "You're from...Switzerland?"
"Iceland."
He looked surprised that Interpol had a branch there. "...right. Anyway, we're glad to see you, we've been begging for back-up on this kidnapping investigation. Most of the time, we don't get big cases like this--we aren't the main Paris field office, we're just a branch."
After they made it to the first floor, Shorr led her into the second door on the right. It was a small chair-filled meeting room. An older man, short and stout, with thinning black hair, was waiting for them. He wore a stiff, old-fashioned black suit.
"You're what they sent us, hmm?" His French accent was much heavier than Shorr's. "I'm Harold Reed." He looked her over. "Did I hear right? You've been with us three years?"
She was surprised that he'd been eavesdropping--and more surprised that he didn't care if she knew about it. She said yes.
"How many field operations have you done?"
Merie looked up at the ceiling, her head slightly bouncing back and forth, as if she were tallying up the number. Finally, she said "This is my first one."
Shorr looked pained. Reed started pacing around like a madman. "I told you, didn't I? I told you they'd do it again." He looked at Merie. "They don't take these things seriously, cherie. The danger is over, the kidnappers are all dead or hospitalized--and they don't want to know anything more. It's all that American influence. Their media glorifies these super-vigilantes, makes them into celebrities. They look the other way."
"Well, we don't actually know who saved those kids, yet," Shorr pointed out.
"Please!" Reed gave him a wave of dismissal. "Whether they're superhuman or not, it's still vigilantism. Even if it's the US' own spies." He pointed towards Merie. "So, they send people who would never solve the case in a million years." Reed threw his hands up. "That's it, I'm calling the division director, I've had enough of this..."
Reed stormed out of the room, and Shorr sighed. "I'm sorry, but you have to understand--this happens quite a bit. Not in France, of course. But it seems like there are some cases that they just don't want us to solve. Cases involving things 'coincidentally' working out just right. It's nothing against you."
She managed a smile. "No, I was...well, I was wondering why they sent me. I've been sitting behind a desk for years." Merie already hated Reed, but she had to admit, she was hardly qualified to do something like this. She was content to read spy novels, take care of her cats, and duck phone calls from her mother.
"You might as well get started...why don't you go downstairs, and find the Runner? He's one of our forensics people. He'll get you up to speed."
"Who?"
Shorr suddenly realized that she didn't know who the nickname referred to. "Jack Drunner."
"Okay." She turned to leave, and then turned around, and said "Nice meeting you."
"You, too."
She walked out of the room mumbling "stupid" over and over. It took her less than a minute to go down both flights of stairs. The basement was even cooler, which was great. The hall was dark--only one room was lit up.
She knocked twice. "Jack Drunner?"
"Yeah, c'mon in."
She did. Drunner was a very thin and lanky black man--he definitely looked like a runner. He wore bluejeans, a dusty blue button-down, and a crimson tie. His head was completely shaved, and he wore rimless glasses.
"Merie Velesco, right?"
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"Everything echoes in here. Not that big of a building."
The room she was in was some kind of a lab--black counters and tabletops were everywhere, covered with microscopes and all sorts of equipment that she couldn't even recognize. Drunner was sitting on an unsightly metal stool. The walls were all cinderblock.
"You're the lead investigator?"
"Looks like." She couldn't trace his accent. "Are you American?"
"Yeah, I've just been here for a year or so."
Drunner got up, and closed the door behind them. Merie felt slightly nervous--why had he done that?
"You really need to see this," he said, without looking at her. "I'm probably the first person to really take a look at the evidence...there's some national holiday or fair or something today, that's where everyone is."
He held up a tiny plastic bag, which had a bullet in it. The front end was flattened. She asked, "Did it hit a wall?"
"No. It was one that the kidnappers used. We just found it in the middle of the floor."
"What about the guy that shot them up?"
He strode over to a grouping of equipment. "See for yourself."
It was another little baggie, with a bullet in it. But it didn't even look like a bullet--more like a glob of funny-shaped metal. "What happened to it?"
"We pulled it out of a corpse. Bullets can become distorted like this, if they hit bone...but this went right between his ribs, and hit his heart. It was designed to break up--impossible to trace. And whoever did it was using caseless ammunition."
"Caseless?"
"No shell casings--very high-tech. We literally can't match it to a gun. And with the kidnappers' bullets, well, it's obviously..." he trailed off, with a self-explanatory shrug.
"What?"
"Look, the crime-scene people didn't find any unidentified fingerprints, or even footprints...no loose hairs or threads. And some of these guys were taken out with hand-to-hand combat, while they were still armed. Once I say who I think we're dealing with, everyone is gonna go insane, okay? This is officially off-the-record."
"Fine, fine...but who is it?"
He took a breath. "Look, I did forensics for the Chicago police department for years...I've seen this before. Not exactly, but the same kind of thing. The kidnappers' bullets look like they bounced off something. The gun used to kill them was very specialized. Our guy was obviously some kind of fighter. Nothing to identify the killer." Drunner paused. "Back in Chicago, we've got a bit of a mob problem..." He chuckled dryly. "The people that go up against them? Just the same. I've seen this kind of evidence a hundred times--we're dealing with some kind of a mystery-man here."
"You mean a superhuman, or...?"
"Could be, but not necessarily. Could be a well-equipped spy. But the kids? Their statements match the mystery-man theory perfectly. When people get saved by someone on the wrong side of the law, they try to protect them. These kids, they're all saying they didn't see anything...come on, they have to be covering."
Merie nodded. It all made sense...except for one thing. "Now that we think we know more about the killer, why do you want to keep it quiet?"
Drunner let out a long sigh. "Because they love killing the messenger. Right now, we've just got a crime. When this gets out, it'll be a full-blown political situation. Everyone pointing fingers. We'll lose all of the room we have to move. If we want a real shot at finding out who did this, we have to do something now."
"Like what?"
"Like going to Icarus Innovations, in the States. Either the Seattle or Parodiopolis office. France has hardly ever dealt with supercrime, they don't have the resources I need. But I.I. has got it all."
She nodded. "And what if we stay here?"
"Then France and America are going to get into even more of a shouting match--it was American kids, so the guy that did it was probably an American. France'll know it. Then, when we say that we need I.I., France won't let us go, or the US won't let us in."
"And the murderer goes free."
"Pretty much, yeah."
She straightened her shirt, and tried to act like she could believe she was doing something this crazy. Her suddenly-boring life was about to get exciting. "How soon can you be ready?"
He looked up at the clock. "Gimme an hour."
-------------
Marcy was waiting. She'd been waiting for ten minutes. Currently, she was standing around the garage-level of the Helms Building, and telling herself not to worry. The building itself was wider than it was tall--grey, and ten stories high, with the first two floors reserved for parking. It was a relatively short, squatting place that took up an entire block.
She looked out-of-place in the concrete garage. Marcy was wearing a light purple, short-sleeved shirt, and dark purple jeans. She had long, dark hair, and a fairly dark complexion. Normally, she just had to do errands around the Twelve Labors Foundation office--but today, her "job" as an intern had led her here. She was about ten feet away from the elevator.
Then, she heard it. The echo of squealing tires. It was followed by a strange-sounding engine: almost like that car on Knight Rider, where it made an electronic whining that sounded like a spaceship.
A gleaming silver vehicle tore up the ramp, fearlessly charging ahead. She didn't know much about cars, but it kind of looked like a Porsche--low-slung, two-door, a spoiler in the back. It had indented black racing lines that came off the front wheel-wells, and continued onto the doors. Didn't Lamborghinis have those? Very sporty. It was outfitted with black-tinted windows and hubcaps that looked like rounded shurikens.
It screeched to a stop, perfectly sliding into an empty space. After the engine ceased, the door instantly swung open, and a young man climbed out--he was about the same age as Marcy. Sunglasses, dark red hair, all in black.
He slammed the door like he hated the car, and the alarm automatically beeped on when he did. For some reason, she noticed his shoes...they looked like a combination between hiking boots and sneakers. She found that odd: he was so well-dressed, why would he be in shoes that you'd use for running or climbing?
As he got closer, and she could see him better, she had to force herself to stay professional. His coat flapped behind him, just a bit--the garage was open, so it was always breezy in there. He looked so serious...
She went for it. "Mr. McKinley?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. They need you up in the office--"
"Which floor?"
"Fourth."
He glanced at the elevators--all three were busy. After spinning on his heels, he eyed the stairs. "I'm on it."
A second later, the heavy steel door slammed shut, and she exhaled. That wasn't a person, that was an experience...
----------------
The stairs were easy: with his strength and speed, Michael was able to take four at a time, without even breaking a sweat.
And the car was a nice plus...yeah, he didn't like driving it, but it was actually outfitted with all kinds of weaponry. Plus, it was heavily armored; far more than just bulletproof. As soon as he'd gotten in, it had reacted to his presence. Apparently, he was now the Primary User for all of his father's technology.
If they tried a hit on him now, and he could survive for the first minute, he'd be okay--he just had to get to the car. Or call it to him...it had a rudimentary AI autopilot.
Plus, the car had sensors, which made it harder for someone to sneak up on him. He'd found a special pair of sunglasses in the glovebox--fiberoptic, just like in Mission Impossible. The sensor data could be routed through the glasses. And they seemed to have some other options...his father had always loved wearing these glasses, so they probably had telescopic vision, infrared...maybe even x-ray. He briefly considered testing the latter capability out on the girl he'd literally ran into at the law firm, but he shook himself out of it.
Michael felt a bit more relaxed: he was starting to get back on his feet. Maybe he really could manage all this. He made it to the fourth floor in under a minute. Then, he swung open the door, ready for anything.
Almost.
Cops. The elevator lobby--complete with white walls, a tiled floor, and a few dark blue chairs--was crawling with cops.
In the split-second before they turned to see who'd just come out of the stairwell, he ran through the possibilities in his mind. Worst-case scenario, they'd found out the truth, and wanted him dead or alive. Maybe DuPlis sold him out, maybe they just stumbled across it. Or maybe they wanted to clear up some details about the Gemini Twins--but why would they have sent so many people?
Then, again, other than a select few people, who knew he was coming? Probably not the cops. Maybe they were here for a reason other than Michael.
One of the cops had on a more dressed-up uniform: black slacks, a white button-down with a badge, and a black trench-coat. He had orange-red hair, which was in a buzzcut. "McKinley!?"
Michael half-considered slamming the door, to block the hail of bullets that was sure to come. Instead, he waited--the guy had sounded surprised to see him. And his paranoia had already gotten the better of him once before.
Instead of waiting for a response, the man asked "What are you doing here? Aren't you going on trial in a few weeks?"
Michael shrugged. "They cleared me of the charges--they said they have evidence that shows I didn't do it."
The man stood there for a moment, with his mouth open. Then a uniformed cop whispered something in his ear. "Well...dammit."
Now that he knew they weren't there to go after him, Michael said "What about you? Who are you, and why are you here? I'm a senior board member of this foundation, and I'd like some answers."
The forty-something man looked surprised, and somewhat offended. "I"m Assistant Commissioner Severin. And I'm here because you people are withholding evidence in a criminal investigation!"
"Uh-huh." Michael shouldered his way through the crowd. He wanted a second opinion.
On the other side of the cops was a hallway--he saw an older version of the girl he'd just met; probably in her mid-twenties. She had on black pants and a classy red tanktop. Sisters?
The woman recognized him right off the bat. "Mr. McKinley? I'm Kara Smith--I'm an administrator for the foundation."
He nodded. "I think I just met your sister."
"Yeah, I had her waiting for you. Anyway, let's go in my office--I need to get you filled in on what's going on, and we don't have much time..."
"I noticed," he stated, using his head to gesture back to the cops.
They headed towards a glass-doored office. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you, we desperately need someone to straighten all this out. And you, uhh, you're official, right? Your father's position was passed down to you?"
"Less than an hour ago, but yeah."
"Wow, okay, that must be my lucky thing for the day."
He stepped in front of her, opening the door. She looked surprised. "Thanks. And what was Severin talking about?"
"I just got out of prison this morning."
That stopped her in her tracks. "...okay. Um."
"Don't worry, I didn't do anything...well, self-defense, but..."
The office had an entirely smooth floor and mostly transparent walls and furniture. They quickly walked through a small group of desks, which were manned by secretaries.
"You're about to meet Mr. Certings, he's also a senior board member, but he's, um..."
She didn't need to finish the sentence. They walked into a small conference room, where an old man with a single shock of white hair was frantically making laps around the table. He looked very, very nervous, and was drowning in a large grey suit.
"The cavalry at last! Thank God, thank God." He rushed over to Michael and shook his hand. "I hope that you can figure this out better than I can."
Just a bit eccentric. "What, exactly, is going on?"
Kara motioned for them to sit down, but Michael remained standing. "This'll make the most sense chronologically--so bear with me. A few weeks back, the police questioned one of our interns because of a 'random drug tip'. They kept bugging him about about a CD in a green case, that was supposed to be in our office. With me so far?"
Michael nodded.
"Aside from charity work, we're also a kind of a social watchdog group. We monitor a lot of major institutions, like the health care system, and the police...the CD in the green case was our upcoming report on the Parodiopolis police department. It, uhh, it wasn't the most positive piece in the world. We had two copies--"
"Mine was stolen!" Certings softly cried out. "Some man calling himself The Harrier broke into my home, left a note, and stole it! I never saw him, though. I'm a heavy sleeper."
Kara confirmed the theft. "Whenever we make a report like this, we give the disks to two senior members. The other one was supposed to be your father, but...well, you know. So we just kept in in the office. You now have control over it."
Michael said okay.
"And now the police want our only other copy...it's 'evidence'. And since they were already interested in it, I'm wondering if this isn't a coincidence." Kara gave a flustered shrug. "Plus, we were going to send the report out tomorrow, so that makes me wonder even more. Funny timing."
"Do you really think they'd do that?" Certings couldn't believe it. "I don't think they would. And the note looked real."
"We don't really have a policy on what to do in this kind of situation," Kara grumbled. "And we can't get in touch with any other senior members, they're out West, at a charity function."
Michael had two questions. "The intern...did he tell you that they were asking about the CD before, or after this happened?"
"Before."
"And who all knew about the CD?"
"Anyone in the office...it wasn't a big secret or anything."
After rubbing his jaw, Michael said "As of now, it isn't your problem. It's mine. Only I have authority to give it away, right?"
"Right."
"Then I'll handle it."
----------------
In the time it took to walk back to the small mob of cops--less than thirty seconds--Michael had to come up with a plan.
The various employees and volunteers of the Twelve Labors Foundation fell silent as he went by, with Kara and Certings trailing closely behind. Everyone there knew about the situation that was developing just outside the office, and gave Michael an expectant look as he passed. Like he was supposed to be the cavalry.
It was then that a horrifying thought struck him: In this situation, I'm the only adult.
Oh, Kara and Certings both were--but she didn't have enough authority, and he was too frazzled to stand up for the organization. For the moment, Michael was the only one that could protect one of the largest and most effective charity groups in the world.
This is what you wanted, right? If you're gonna be stuck living this life, you might as well do some good with what you've been given. This is your first chance--don't blow it.
Assistant Commissioner Severin was waiting in the elevator lobby. There were fewer cops now. Severin didn't look happy. "I don't care who you are, you don't just walk away from me when I'm talking--"
Michael enjoyed interrupting him. "You have a warrant? Subpoena? Anything like that?"
"No, but I could get one--then we'd have to turn this place upside down, and shut you down for hours."
"You want to take a look at the CD, to see if you can find why The Harrier wanted it?"
"Exactly."
Michael had a few "tests" planned. This was the first one. "So you'd be okay with just a printout of everything on it?"
Severin looked flustered. "Uhh, no, we, um, we need the actual CD...it's safer for you if we have it, anyway. What if he comes after the other one?"
"He already has one, why does he need two?" Michael paused, and then pointedly asked test number two. "Unless he's trying to cover something up. Maybe he doesn't want people to see that report."
Severin was looking more and more uncomfortable. He didn't like where this was going. "What're you trying to say?"
Michael shrugged apathetically. "Just thinking out loud. Anyway, I'm brand-new at this, so let me get this straight: now, we only have one copy of a disk that has a report on your department, and you want it."
"...well, yeah, but the way you're saying it--"
"What do we know about this Harrier person? Is there any previous record of him?"
"Not--not that I know of, but we're still checking..." Severin remembered that he was supposed to be the one asking the questions. "Look, that's enough--give me the disk, or I'll shut this entire place down."
"Your problem isn't with them," Michael said calmly. He pulled out the disk. "It's with me."
"But--"
"I'm acting completely on my own. Even if they wanted me to give you the disk, they couldn't make me."
"Look, you have five minutes to decide...give it up, or I get it the hard way."
Michael considered it. "Let me talk to the foundation's lawyers first. I'll go into an office and do it...Kara, can you give me the number?"
"Use my office--it's on speed-dial, nine."
"Okay."
----------------
Kara's office was one of the few that didn't have glass walls. And Michael was glad--his plan required privacy.
The desk was minimalistic, the chair was far too big, and everything was a very dim beige. Michael checked the clock and winced: he'd have to move quickly. He loaded the CD into her laptop and browsed it as fast as he could.
Simultaneously, he called the law firm, but he already knew what they'd have to say: you pretty much have to give up the CD. He tried to focus on multitasking.
A minute later, he'd gotten the gist of the report. The vast majority of the Parodiopolis police were clean, but a few precincts were subtly encouraging racial profiling, scare tactics on innocent citizens, and various degrees of brutality.
Michael had developed three theories on the situation:
1. Severin's lying through his teeth. Some faction of the police department made up The Harrier to cover up their failings, by getting both copies of the CD. And it's intimidation to keep the foundation from doing it again.
2. The Harrier is real, but Severin's using the case as an excuse to cover up his own problems.
3. The Harrier is real, and Severin actually wants the CD for altruistic reasons.
Michael grimaced--no matter what he did, there was room to screw up. If Severin was telling the truth, and the police examining the CD could prevent The Harrier from doing something even worse...! But if Severin was lying, giving him the CD meant a social injustice.
The lawyer was still talking to him. Michael's mind raced. Two and a half minutes left.
Severin seemed to want the actual CD, not just a copy of the information in it, which lended to the Severin-is-an-evil-SOB theory. So did the fact that a small army of cops and an assistant commissioner had showed up to get evidence for a mere breaking-and-entering case.
Even if Michael just gave him a copy of the information, they could use it to quickly improve the problems before the actual report was released--preventing the fallout before it happened. Which wasn't an entirely bad thing, but it'd just be a new coat of paint; not actually solving anything.
Then it hit him.
It was a small file. Kara's computer was right in front of him. Michael was fairly certain he knew how to avoid all the possible risks...
--------------
"Time's up."
As discreetly as they could, most of the Twelve Labors Foundation's office-dwellers were watching the situation through the glass doors. It had been an impossibly long five minutes. Certings looked like he was having a panic attack, and Kara and Severin kept glaring at each other.
Everyone turned their head as they heard Kara's office door swing open. Michael McKinley silently walked through the office, and then exited it. Severin was waiting for him.
"Well?"
Without a word, Michael took out the CD case and tossed it to him.
"Finally," Severin mumbled. He, and the rest of the cops turned to leave.
"Oh, just one more thing," Michael said innocently.
Severin turned around. He still looked smug from his victory.
"You're sure that this guy isn't trying to cover anything up, right? That there's some other reason he stole the CD?"
"Yeah."
"Good--in that case, it'll be safe for us to keep a copy." Michael had a CD in a blue-tinted case. "Since he doesn't want to cover it up, he won't come after every single one, right?"
"Uhh--"
"And, just to be safe, I e-mailed the file to every employee here."
Severin's jaw dropped. "That's forty-five people, just in the Parodiopolis office alone..."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed that you knew that 'off the top of your head'." The last part of what he said was oozing with sarcasm.
"That's a sure-fire way to leak it to the press, dammit, why--"
"Really?" Michael tried to sound surprised. "Well, we were gonna send it to them tomorrow, anyway. Sorry--it's my first day."
Kara was trying not to giggle. Certings was trying to figure out what was going on.
Michael continued. "But, hey, now you have the CD, so you can use it to try to find a motive for The Harrier. I assume he has some reason why he wants it. Maybe I'll hire a private investigator to help you out...I'm sure we'll get to the truth in no time."
Severin was turning pale. "Uhh, no, we'll handle it...it really isn't a big deal. Just breaking and entering."
-----------------
In less than a minute, the elevator lobby was empty, except for Michael, Kara, and Certings.
Michael put on his sunglasses--time to leave. "By the way, I put a little note at the front of my e-mail...about how the cops were asking about the CD, even before one was stolen. When--I mean, if--it gets leaked to the press, I'm sure that'll get a mention. We've got some good journalists in Parodiopolis, I bet they'll pick up on it."
Kara put a hand on his shoulder. "Seriously...thanks. You were a big help."
"Don't thank me yet--this ended way too easily. I'd be surprised if it's really over."
Certings shook his hand vigorously. "Nice to see that the future of the foundation is in the hands of such a...capable...young man like yourself. Your father would be proud."
Michael struggled to come up with an appropriate response, but a ringing cel phone saved him. "...is that me?" He pulled it out of his jacket--his father's.
It beeped on. "Michael?"
Samantha.
She laughed. "I, uhh, I thought you might be at KinLabs, and I talked to Kevin...he said you had your dad's phone, and gave me the number..."
"Oh. Right." Michael paused. "...how are you?"
"I'm fine...are you okay?" She caught herself. "I'm sorry, that's a stupid question."
"No, I'm, uh..."
She quickly said something, like she was trying to do it before she lost the nerve. "Look--do you want to have dinner tomorrow? I mean, with my family and me," she laughed nervously. "We thought you might not want to be stuck in that big old mansion, all by yourself..."
"Sure!" He tried to filter the excitement out of his voice. "Sure, that sounds great."
"Is six too early?"
"No, it's fine..."
"Okay...see you then." He was about to hang up, when she said "I'm sorry this is so short, but they need me for a construction accident, and it'll be easier to get caught up in-person..."
"No, of course, go do what you need to...bye." She said bye too, and he beeped off.
Now it was Kara's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Sounds like you're getting back into your old groove pretty quickly..."
Michael tried not to jinx it, but he couldn't help but think that things might actually get better...
----------------
"You didn't kill him."
Agent DuPlis' office--which was barely bigger than a broom closet--rarely had more than one person in it. It was all dank concrete, an ugly metal desk, and a few empty file cabinets. All he used it for was as a place to sit. Everything he really needed was in his laptop, which was the sole item on the desk. In truth, he wasn't much of an "office" person; he was usually out on missions.
But DuPlis was casual today--jeans and a sweatshirt. Though the underground was often portrayed as lava-filled and boiling, their little base was surprisingly cold. His extremely-unmilitary dark, curly hair and relaxed expression went much better with his dressed-down look.
The other man in the office was older, a bit taller, and a bit overweight. He wore a cowboy-style shirt and stiff denim, complete with an oversized belt-buckle. It was no mystery that Agent Austin's last name was also his hometown. His Texan accent fluctuated--sometimes it was heavy; sometimes not.
"DuPlis, DuPlis, DuPlis...when we use the third parties for operations, we send the clean-up teams to keep 'em quiet. Dead men tell no tales'n'all that. And I checked the roster today--you didn't activate any housekeeping."
"I used a third party? Really?" DuPlis rolled his eyes. "News to me."
"Don't try an' fool me, son. Now, ah'course, I don't know who it is. We don't wanna know, y'know?" He laughed. "And I gotta admit, you did a good job a'keeping it secret, but not good enough. None of us were s'posed to get into that Paris mess, remember?"
"You're talking out of your ten-gallon hat, pardner," DuPlis chuckled. "Nice theory, but it's just that--not evidence."
"Maybe not," Austin admitted. "But I hoped it might make ya more open to a little gig I'm setting up." He waved a file-folder at him, and tossed it on his desk.
DuPlis pulled it closer. "Global Bank?"
"Let's get one thing clear: you hate me and I hate you. But I'm guessin' you broke ranks to save those kids, and I like that. Now, nobody'd ever peg you as a man a'conscience. Not with your background. And the way I figure it, you can do all kinds'a good and never be suspected. So, long as you're keepin' your man alive, why not put him to some more use?"
"We all have stuff going on the side," DuPlis shrugged. "Yours is about 22, isn't she?"
Austin grinned malevolently. "Smart man...maybe a bit too smart for his own good."
"Get over yourself, Austin. You aren't that good."
"And you ain't that bad. Go on now, take a look at them papers. See if that morality you work at hidin' can just ignore what's goin' on. This ain't no order, now...I'm just bringin' it to your attention."
With that, Austin left. DuPlis softly slammed the flats of his hands on his desk. He didn't think that the mission would be compromised so quickly.
He might have to do this Global Bank op...and he might have to set up Austin's murder. Either way, McKinley was the key.
----------------
A pitch-black room: the only light comes from a large television. A man watches, sipping wine and smiling. The latest news-channel anchor is cute; he may have to have his private investigator get some "personal" photographs of her.
He usually doesn't pay attention to what she's saying, but tonight, they're talking about some ridiculous criminal. "The Harrier"! They've just showed the note...completely fake, he thinks. The police are even more transparent than usual. How can anyone fall for this?
Though it's getting late, the opportunist in him is wide-awake. Though it's a pathetic ploy, it's also an identity with no known person behind it. Just waiting to be taken. And it'd lead back to the police, if his sources were correct. He loved the irony.
He killed the volume--she had on a purple vest tonight, showing just enough for him to cancel his eleven o'clock teleconference with Japan. Besides, he could justify taking the night off by finding a way to use this "Harrier" nonsense to his advantage...
---------------
Countless church bells tolled the midnight hour, their sound flying freely through the empty space between Parodiopolis' skyscrapers. But those in lower-lying buildings suffered the brunt of the noise. Among others, it hit a seven-story apartment complex: Lynn Cartana sat up straight in her bed, covered in a moist layer of summer sweat.
She instinctively reached out, and sighed. Her fiancee was gone on business. With him out of town, she had no real reason to sleep in the nude, but she'd done it anyway--hard habit to break. Then again, Parodiopolis was one of those rare cities that seemed to get even hotter at night.
After kicking the covers off, she pulled on a flimsy silk robe, and didn't bother tying it. She yawned, stretched, and stumbled to the fridge.
Her mind had been frizzy for most of today--or rather, yesterday. For some reason, she couldn't focus on her other cases. The final stage of the McKinley proceedings had thrown her off-balance for the entire day.
Something's there. I know it.
The Pierce Heights DA's office was unusual, in the sense that there wasn't a lot of petty crime to keep them busy. Most other DA's had to deal with a constant stream of low-level drug offenses and E-class felonies. Horribly boring and repetitive. But Pierce Heights, with their extremely rich constituents...cases were either huge, or not at all.
So, she had more free time than assistants DA's in other boroughs. It wasn't like she'd be slacking off if she did a bit more research on the apparently-innocent Michael McKinley. Not at all.
After taking a swig of milk, she wandered back to bed. She was stiff all over--another round of stretching caused her robe to droop. She let it fall on the floor. In the morning, she'd use her usual half-hour of free time to look into McKinley. She owed it to the people to make sure that everything was kosher, after all.
Who knew what might be there?
Continued...
------
Light the sky and hold on tight
The world is burning down
She's out there on her own and she's doing alright
Sunny came home
Sunny came home
------
Next: Ideal Versus The Real
Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*
This poster posed from 63.171.208.167 when they posted
Message Thread
Post A Message
DarkBeast.com :: Forums :: Post New Message :: Board