by Mathy, Scott
A bright yellow taxi cleared the guard station at the far end of the drive. As it drove on, he saw the poor vehicle’s suspension struggling with the uneven concrete partially melted by his other self’s rampage.
Below, Dwight could see his own construction crews working to fix the damage his war had caused to the building and its adjacent grounds. It had been a long winter. The last dregs of snow had only melted a few weeks ago, bringing with it a chance to restore life to the charred forest left in the End’s wake. Teams cleared away the burned, blackened trunks while others brought in new trees, ready to be set into the fresh soil laid down by even more workers. The project was enormous, easily as big as the actual repairs to the building.
The double doors to the office opened. The echoing clack of heels on tile reverberated through the cavernous space. He already knew his visitor’s identity; she’d come in a dozen times in the last hour alone. The footsteps stopped a few feet behind him.
“Your twelve o’clock just arrived. He should be up in fifteen minutes,” the woman reported, her voice as direct as ever.
He turned to face her. The brunette’s hair was tied in a tight bun. She wore everything as he had imagined back when he only knew the voice, professional in every way, right down to the navy blue dress suit. He’d offered the woman a company card to change her wardrobe, but she’d seemingly declined. “Celine, I forget what this one is for. Can you refresh me?”
His former – and, he supposed, renewed – handler sighed, “You are interviewing candidates for an initiative to re-launch the Guild this fall. Your ex-wife asked us to supervise the process, since she’s been so busy with outreach lately. There will be six today, twenty in the next week.”
He hated doing interviews. It had become a routine part of his day since he dissolved the Associate program. Completing the current batch had felt like the right thing to do, but once they were educated and ready, he was left with a workforce of several thousand that needed assignments. Whole blocks of the city had to be repurposed into housing for the formerly disposable work force. Nightly classes hosted at the building were used to teach the Associates vital life skills needed beyond following their overlord’s instructions.
The week he took control, he’d offered them the chance to leave, no questions asked. Some of them had taken the offer, vanishing without a trace, much like their former boss. They were mostly the mid-to-upper tier of the ranks, the ones given enough autonomy to make their own decisions. For the rest of the staff, freedom must have been a terrifying prospect. Many stayed, unsure of where to go. He’d filled any vacancies with applicants, rather than replacing them with more clones. The tanks had been shut down; last he checked, Ellis was experimenting with using them to grow synthetic organs, or something along those lines. He found it so difficult to keep track of everything with the weight of the world resting on his tired shoulders. StarPoint, as he’d always suspected, was the center of New Haven’s existence.
He followed the car’s journey to the front of the building, watching it bounce over every jagged pothole in his private road. He winced as one particularly loud groan echoed up the side of the building. “How long until we get the road fixed?” he asked his assistant.
She checked her tablet, “It will be at least next spring before any construction crews are available for that project.”
“You’re telling me I’m basically the emperor of the city, yet I can’t get my own driveway repaired?”
Her voice grew stern, the tone she reserved for when he challenged her decisions, “You told me to ‘absolutely prioritize the repairs to the city over StarPoint.’ Every vehicle, crew, and ounce of concrete is being assigned to that operation first.” He liked that about her; it helped him manage the otherwise impossible day-to-day of the enormous company. “I did take care of that one project you asked for,” she pointed to the front steps with her pen.
Below, at the base of the building, a single statue was half-finished on a pedestal. Before, these were a cruel joke, Counsel’s final laugh at the fallen heroes of the city. Dwight had made it a priority to clear away the toppled remains of the statues, leaving all but one of them free to be replaced by worthy tributes. The lone sculpture in progress was slowly beginning to resemble Evan Zhu. The artist chipped away at the stone’s right eye, forming the impression of the void churning within. It would be weeks before it was finished, but Dwight wanted it done as quickly as possible, a symbol of the sacrifices their peace had required.
They both admired the construction for a moment before she continued her afternoon assessment of their work, “Consider yourself lucky that I deemed it necessary to at very least patch the holes you put through the floor and replace your windows. You still haven’t said whether you approve of your new desk.”
He looked over to the simple wooden table resting where Wulf’s grand obsidian slab had once been. In his desire to avoid the trappings of his new position, his replacement looked like it had been purchased from an office supply chain.
As promised, a cardboard box with a pre-purchased shipping label arrived within a week of his conversation with Wulf. He’d sealed the skull of Pulsar, Wulf’s second-greatest conquest, in the unassuming package and taped it shut. He kept the glass dome, unsure of how to fit the heavy shield in the box. He’d thought to try to track the label before giving it to Celine, but decided against it. Wherever Wulf was, he would always be Wulf; there would no doubt be a dozen agencies and false destinations before the remains reached their intended recipient.
Beneath the table, Molly snored loudly in her bed. It was the one extravagance still permitted in the office, a bed fit for a queen seated just under the shabby desk. Though left unsaid between them, her return had been Ian’s apology. Dwight happily accepted the tiny creature back into his life. Molly seemed mostly neutral about the exchange. Glitch still visited from time to time. There had been talks of her taking over security for the building, once she’d finished working with Linda on defining the Guild’s future. He wished Ian would come around more, but the infrequent reports from his girlfriend were enough for now. It would take time to rebuild their relationship, but Dwight was content knowing his former roommate had come to terms with his partner’s lifestyle.
Celine showed him the tablet, “I’ve scheduled meetings with the community leaders you selected. Adams Jr. has been calling every hour about wanting one. You’re really sure you want to give away this much control of the city?”
“Absolutely. I didn’t go through all this just to become the next tyrant of New Haven. We need to give them a chance to run themselves.”
She confirmed the appointments, “There are advantages to that kind of control. I’m only looking out for-”
He cut her off, “Understood, but this isn’t negotiable. The Referee is done. We’re putting the power back where it belongs. For better or worse, that’s my decision.”
There was a buzz at his intercom. He checked the sender before he cautiously tapped the receiver. The Doc’s voice came through the outdated machine, “Dwight!” her frustration was already apparent.
He’d been dreading this conversation, “Yeah, Doc, I’m here.” The device emitted a whir of static, a byproduct of Wulf’s obsession with the ancient technology.
Her shouting cut through the noise, “May I ask why you denied my last requisition!?”
“Because you asked for six million dollars in highly volatile chemicals. Unless you’re planning on revolutionizing a field we can generate a profit from, I’m going to deny any requests for things that explode until we get something useful.”
“Explosions can be useful,” she argued, “you built an entire career out of it.”
He struggled to counter her reasoning, “Look, I’ll make a deal with you: one million for things that go boom for every useful medical breakthrough.” It had been difficult to motivate the Doctor to transition her research to anything remotely close to productive. Her initial irritation that he knew most of her old tricks fo
r acquiring less-than-honest funding from StarPoint was only forgiven when he’d agreed to provide her with a lab inside of the complex. She had also requested a pool of volunteer Associates as assistants. So far, he’d avoided visiting her levels as best he could.
She pondered his offer, “Deal, but I get to decide the field. I’m still my own scientist, even if I have more scrupulous corporate sponsors.” She cut the line.
Celine appeared at his side, setting a file folder on the desk, “These are your questions; stick to the script, and everything will be fine.”
He took a deep breath, adjusting his tie and taking a quick look around the mostly empty office. More of Wulf’s trophies had been removed from the building, put into storage in case their owner ever asked for them. In their place, Ivan hung mounted against the wall. Its olive green surface still bore the dents and dust from the confrontation with Zel. The broken remains of the Referee Armor stood in one of the cases which formerly housed Wulf’s collection. Counsel’s perverse garden was transformed into a private apartment in which he spent most of his nights, typically too exhausted to do anything once the day’s work was over. There was little there by ways of comforts, but he was too determined to care.
His assistant turned on one of the televisions mounted to the wall, “Your appointment is taking some time, something about requiring a change of clothes. Security is seeing to it.”
Molly shifted under the table, the tiny dog kicking at her owner’s leg as she dreamed of chasing something that in reality was likely far larger than her. Dwight reached down, scratching the animal’s fur as he read the paper aloud.
“‘Please list your three greatest public accolades,’” he repeated skeptically. He pushed the paper away, “Celine, I thought we talked about revising the interviews. We’re looking for fresh talent, not more attention-seeking Capes.”
She shrugged, “We talked about it, Mr. Knolls, but unless you make it a priority, we have several thousand other things to get done in a day, and I’m only one woman. I was specifically trained by your predecessor to transition you into this role as CEO of StarPoint, but I am not a mind reader, and I am not your caretaker.”
“Fine,” he admitted, “schedule it sometime next Monday.”
She added it to the calendar from her tablet, “There, was that so hard?”
The doors opened, a lean man stumbling through them wearing what Dwight guessed was a repurposed Associate suit. While Dwight had suspended the practice of requiring the uniform, many of the clones still defaulted to the familiar garb, his own assistant included. The man pulled at the collar of his borrowed outfit, clearly uncomfortable in the office attire. He shuffled through the chamber, taking in the mix of grandiose splendor along with the “under construction” motif that Dwight had brought with him. The numerous plywood panels over the craters in the floor did nothing to enhance the professionalism of the room.
There was an odd swagger about the man’s step as he wandered through the room toward the desk. Dwight would have called it drunk, but that didn’t feel right. Instead, it seemed like the gentleman wasn’t all there. He glanced silently at his assistant, raising an eyebrow.
She returned the look, taking control of the situation, “Mr. Reynolds?” she called across the foyer.
The man turned suddenly, instantly aware of the two people seated at the center of the room. He hurried over, taking a seat across from them, “Sorry, folks. Just never been up here before. Always thought it would be, well…” he trailed off, “…nicer?”
Dwight couldn’t help sinking a bit in his chair. Celine detected his annoyance, taking the lead, “Well, we are making a few changes. Please do not let that distract you. Let’s begin with a few questions.” She jabbed Dwight’s ankle with her foot.
Dwight flipped open the folder as he readied his sheet of questions. As he cleared his throat to begin, the applicant turned to face the television, and began laughing hysterically. The CEO and his assistant exchanged fearful looks.
“Mr. Reynolds?” Celine asked hesitantly as the laughter died down.
He wiped a tear from his eye, “Yeah, sorry, I’m good. Just remembering something.”
Dwight looked to the screen. A news crew was interviewing Powers assisting in the reconstruction of the downtown parks. A shot of Bernard, dressed in his classic Goliath costume while hauling entire trees across the grassy fields, played while the newscasters spoke over the footage. In the months since the Powers’ return, the media and the recovering populace had taken a peculiar fondness for Bernard and his tale of redemption. It was a rare night when his oafish face wasn’t featured on the news.
“Let me tell you about the time that guy punched me straight in the crotch after we stopped a robbery,” the stranger laughed again.
Dwight finally read the name on the applicant’s file, then stared at the reincarnated immortal Power seated in front of him.
It had been an excruciatingly long day. By the time the limousine pulled up to the warehouse, he felt ready to collapse. He thanked the driver, watching the car pull off into the ever-dimming light of the New Haven spring evening. The docks were quiet, a safe place miraculously untouched by the chaos of the conflict. As a result, no construction crews swarmed them to repair any damage. They remained as they were: a peaceful, if strange, retreat for Dwight in a city constantly turning to him for aid.
He felt he’d earned this rest. Pushing open the sanctuary’s door, he barely felt any difference between the light outside of the warehouse and inside. He kicked off his shoes, stepping into the luscious grass as he lowered Molly’s carrier to the ground.
Freed from her cage, the little beast ran through the lawn, thrilled to frolic in the grass. Dwight proceeded up the stone path to the wooden cottage, Molly close behind, breathing in the air meticulously conditioned to mimic a quiet country evening. The synthetic stars were just beginning to come out as he and his furry companion reached the first steps leading into the house.
Dwight hadn’t been here nearly as much as he would have liked. Taking the door knob, he listened to the locks twisting, echoing around the empty rooms. He set the carrier down as Molly ran past him, turning sharply to the right to dash into the den. Hanging up his jacket, he rolled his stiff shoulders as he thought of his plans for the next day. Celine would no doubt have him hit the ground running on another set of interviews, while Ellis tried to weasel her way into acquiring more tools of destruction. This was his life now: managing the world as it spread its arms toward freedom.
His eyes caught a faint violet light, growing steadily stronger from around the corner of the living room. A wave of warm, comforting energy washed over his mind. “Welcome home,” he said.