Post by jackalope on Dec 22, 2012 1:37:54 GMT -5
Ultimate Ex Machina #3: Dreaming of a White Christmas
December, 2012
“Whatever we can offer, just let us know.”
Mitchell shakes her hand and nods. “Thank you Mrs President.” Simultaneously they tilt their bodies towards the cameras lined up at a distance. Behind them, the worst of the storm damage, broken storefronts and the like, stands like a warzone. “Truly, Metropolis appreciates it.”
“Well, you were lucky, if the flying blueman hadn't been around, there probably would have been a lot more deaths.”
Mitchell grins, “Metropolis is lucky with its heroes, I guess.”
She rolls her eyes. “If you say so Mitchell.” Looking back she sees a large security guard give the slightest nod to her. “I have to get going, already they've started posturing over the 'dept ceiling'. Honestly, I don't know why they let kids run congress.” She waves and walks towards the black limousine, which pulls up. “Trick is to focus on the big picture, while working with the small details...” The door opens and the President gets in.
“Thanks for the advice,” he calls, as the car pulls away. “I'll try.”
A tap on his shoulder. “Mayor Hundred?” He turns to see his assistant, Journal, young, blond and professional, waiting for his attention. “There's a meet with the press scheduled in ten, then a catch up with disaster relief in an hour. Deputy Mayor Wylie is touring the homeless shelters now; he said he'd catch up with you tomorrow at noon, and not to worry about getting him anything.”
“Oh shit, I totally forgot to get him something.” Mitch taps his head lightly with his knuckles.
Journal smiles, opening her satchel she carried with her. “20 Cubans, imported, fully above board- I have a friend in customs who helped.”
He almost hugs her. “Journal, you're a life saver.” They start to walk to the press. “What else?”
“You've got a meeting with Councilmen Archer and Havelock at 1, another with treasury at 2.30 and Commissioner Angotti's secretary called to say she wanted to talk to you today.”
Hundred raises an eyebrow, while biting the inside of his cheek. “Did she say what that was about?”
“No, but it sounded important.” He nods staring at the concrete ground. She continues, “You're meeting with... the property developer, had to be postponed 'til tomorrow.”
“On Christmas?”
“It was the only time he said he'd see you.” Journal can see the Mayor's jaw clench with anger, causing her to hesitate. “And... your mother called.”
He stops. His voice is cautious. “What did she want?”
“She said she'll be preparing dinner at yours tomorrow, no excuses, and for you to definitely not get her a present.”
“Oh crap, I didn't get her...”
“You've gotten her a Smith-Coronas portable typewriter. It's being wrapped as we speak.”
“...Just like she owned, amazing.” Hundred takes her hand in both of his. “Thank you Journal, I really couldn't do this without you.”
Journal smiles proudly, as the Mayor walks to the press and takes the first questions.
* * *
Matty Roth taps his foot to the skilfully drummed rhythm. Four men sit in a half circle, their arms blurring as they beat makeshift drums with incredible precision. In the background two kids spray-paint a stencil of a cartoon rabbit in a superman costume. A gang of girls on skateboards circle outside the main court, doing tricks and making fun of one another. Drug dealers and addicts sit on the outskirts, protected by a buffer of kids standing on lookout for the police, or rival gangs. Matty lifts his note pad and looks through.
'In one of the last remaining sanctuaries from the Metropolis of Tomorrow, I find a cross-section of art and music that inspires me. Amidst the drugs and the poor, those conveniently forced to move in the turmoil of the much applauded Waterfront Restoration Project, I see the heart of this city. True culture has always come from the margins, but when these are squeezed, it's the city that suffers.
Over 14% of the neighbourhood of what is commonly known as “Suicide Slum” has been forced to relocate, a fact widely dismissed by the news media. More will soon follow. The gentrification of the area has driven many rents outside of the reach of its original residents. Where these citizens will go seems of little concern to those pushing these projects. As advertised, crime is down overall, but super-crime, a term recently coined on the internet, is up almost 20%, another fact widely ignored. It seems a new breed of criminal has emerged to match the hero.
Today, in the “Slum”, I see fashions that will be copied for the next year, art that will be stolen and used for mass advertising campaigns, music that will appear backing the hottest of Metropolis' rap scene, all surrounded by some of this city’s oldest heritage buildings. Walk a hundred feet to the Waterfront, there you will see tourists. If you ask me whether I believe in the city of tomorrow, I'd ask, “What about the city of today?”'
He sighs. A little sanctimonious, but he believes it. Doesn't he?
It's pointless. “Fuck,” he says to himself, screwing up the paper and shoving the pad in his pocket.
* * *
Mitchell loosens his tie and wipes his hand over his forehead. Taking a breath, he nods. “Show her in.”
The door opens to the purposeful strut of a woman.
“Commissioner Angotti'.” Hundred stands. Angotti gives him a firm handshake.
“Mayor Hundred.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure? I don't think it's time yet to review the budget for the P.D.?”
The Commissioner gives him a short, humourless smile. “I come here, Hundred, because of some sensitive information that concerns you.” She places a brown folder on the table and slides it over to him.
He takes a breath. Angotti narrows her eyes. Opening the manila folder he looks over the pictures. “Shit.”
“Came in from the docks security system a few days ago. He's been in Metropolis approximately two months. It only just got flagged after a few dock workers went missing and they scrolled through the footage.”
“Pherson.” Angotti nods. Hundred flicks through the photos. “Is that a tiger?”
“Two, and he has a gorilla with him as well. We've got Metropolis zoo on fully surveillance, in case he goes for recruits.”
The Mayor scratches his head. “Do the media have any of this?
“It's under wraps for now. I don't want to let him that we know. We've got a team working on this, trying to find him before he strikes. I thought you'd better because of your shared...”
“...history,” Mitchell completes. The head of police nods. “Ok,” Mitchell lets the air leave his chest. “Thanks for the heads up.”
The Commissioner shuts the file and slips it into to her briefcase. “We'll catch him Mitchell.” She gazes over the Mayor's face with her trained eyes. “Was there anything you wanted to tell me while I was here?”
“Of course.” Hundred stands. “Merry Christmas Amy.”
* * *
Zee Hernandez carefully finishes the last stitch. The old man winces, his unkempt grey beard revealing a mouth with a handful of remaining teeth. She pats his knee, and slaps a bandage over the top of it. “Listen Mack, you keep safe. If those kids come around throwing beer bottles again, you go find a cop or someone.” He nods, unconvincingly, as if she was the most naive person on the planet. Maybe she is, she thinks. She pulls down the man's trouser leg and hands him a paper cup of water. “Take an hour before you head out, if you want.” He smiles, she suspects, just to please her, but she'll take it. Who is she to deny kindness?
She stands and stretches, looking around the Southside Free Clinic. It's packed. It's true what they say about Christmas and injuries, and in these poorer regions, most who can't fit into the shelters over the holiday period tried to get out of the cold by sitting in the clinic. They did what they could, but between the storm and what the media were reporting as alien attacks, power was hardly regular in the area.
Walking to the reception, she asks for the next patient. A small girl is called. She stands up, her dirty blond hair hanging from under her over-sized woollen beanie. Zee introduces herself to the girl, feeling her forehead. Definite temperature. She points down at the end free bed, “I'll be down in a second.” She takes the paperwork off the receptionist and checks it over. No listed address. Homeless. She sighs. The receptionist gives her a knowing smile, as if to say, 'this is what you signed up for.' Zee turns and starts towards her patient.
Behind her, the door swing open. A general hush rushes over the clinic. Zee turns. Two well-dressed men in winter coats walk up to the reception. The head doctor, Dr Peterson, quickly rushes by her to meet the men. He points over to a quiet room, and they move towards it. The noise slowly returns to normal. Zee catches a passing nurses arm. “What’s happening there?” She points to the two men, “Who are they?”
Her reply is quiet, “The clinic is in owned territory, we pay protection money to stay safe from criminals and the like.”
Zee's eyes widen, “Extortion!?- but we're a free clinic!”
“Not so loud!” The nurse pulls her closer to the wall. “We get donations, and sometimes we pay in drugs- legal ones.” At Zee's look of disbelief, she smiles gently. “Look, this is the way things work in the real world. Best thing to do is keep your head down and do your work.”
The nurse moves to leave. Zee stares at the floor, then quickly looks up, “Wait.” The nurse turns. “Who do they work for?”
“Wow, you are new here.” The nurse leans in. “The same man who runs most of Metropolis- Mannheim.”
* * *
“Mitchell!”
Opening the door, Hundred jumps with surprise, almost dropping the heavy present he carries. “Mom! How'd you get in my apartment?”
As she continues to bring out food to the large table which had found its way into the centre of his apartment, she replies, “Oh your lovely secretary rang ahead and the people downstairs let me in.”
He turns to Bradbury, who follows him in. “Did you know about this?”
His bodyguard shrugs, taking a small potato off the table and popping it in his mouth. He reaches for another, but Mitchell's mom smacks his hand away. “Sit down.” The bodyguard does so.
Mitchell puts the present under the tree, which had materialised (completely decorated) in the corner of the room. He makes his way over his mother and hugs her, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Wow, mom, this looks amazing. When did you get time...?”
She smiles, ignoring the question. “Take off your jacket and sit down. Dave will be coming over with his family soon, and I invited your Aunt over.”
“Joan?” Mitchell's voice showed concern. He hangs his jacket, as instructed.
“And her new husband... Oh and invited your secretary and her sister over. Did you know they don't have any parents?” She continues to place the dishes out. His mother had an ability to make things happen. He suddenly realised where he got the ability to run a city from. The door rang. “Could you get that Mitch?”
He sighs and looks to Bradbury.
His bodyguard shook his head. “She asked you.”
*
The table laughs, even Wylie’s' kids join in, though they're probably too young to understand the reference. Mitchell's mother tries to put another serving on Dave's plate. He waves his hand.
“Sorry Ms Hundred, I'm stuffed. And it’s not much use to your son if I explode.”
She cheerfully turns to Bradbury, who puts up less resistance. “So what are your plans for your second term?” she asks casually, but her eyes contain conviction. Dave turns to Mitchell.
“Energy,” he says, wiping his mouth. “Blackouts have been way too common after the storm, and it's not acceptable for a city this size. Our citizen's, particularly the poorer residents, need reliable power.”
“What about the opposition? And building consent? Let alone the cost...” She raises an eyebrow. Not one for pulling punches, he smiles; this is why he feels at home in the debating chamber.
“It's not going to be easy, but they've been working on a prototype of the clean energy producer down at STAR Labs. If we can get the public onside with it, I think we'll have a good shot.”
“Not those fucking windmills again issit?” His Aunt calls, after a few too many wines. “You've gotta be kidding about them... No one will put them on their buildings, you're dreaming.” Her new husband pats her arm, slightly embarrassed, but his mother laughs.
“She has a point.”
Mitchell looks to his Deputy. “Are you going to defend me?”
Dave lifts his hands in an over-fearful way. “Against your opposition- sure. But against your mother, no way.” The table laughs. Journal looks over to Mitch and taps her wrist.
He nods, and stands. “I actually have a last minute meeting I've got to get to.” Dave looks confused. “It won’t take long; one of my contributors from Japan is flying back in a couple of hours and wants a meet. I need to thank him. No one leave before I get back. Journal.” His assistant stands, as does his bodyguard, but Mitchell shakes his head, “Stay here, it'll be perfectly safe, I'll take my driver.” Journal follows him to the door and hands him a piece of paper containing instructions to the meeting place. He slips it inside his jacket and pulls out a card, handing it to her.
“What's this?” she asks.
“You didn't think I forgot your gift?” She smiles, showing her bright white teeth. He opens the door. “They're tickets to that terrible indie band you like- Los Campesinos? Your iPhone told me you liked them.”
* *
The black car pulls up to the abandoned warehouse. Mitchell opens the door and turns to the driver.
“Wait here.”
Making his way into the building, he listens out. Six guns, all loaded. They didn't worry him, so much as the knives. You couldn't force knives to jam. Coming to a large steel door he knocks. A slit opens and a peer of hardened eyes quickly examine him. The door opens. Walking into what seemed to be the ancient hub of the industrial area, he can see armed men in each corner of the darkened room, and another standing by a desk lit by and overhead light bulb. At the desk a man in a dark grey suit sits, his head leaning on his hands. The figure wore thick black hair on his head and in a small beard, surrounding a serious scowl. He points to the chair on the other side of the desk.
Hundred approaches, taking off his jacket and carrying it on his arm. “On Christmas evening, was that necessary?”
The dark haired man replies with a deep voice. “I wanted to be sure how seriously you needed to see me.”
Mitchell nods, taking his seat. He reaches into his jacket. Quick as a flash the man's bodyguard is standing beside him with a flick knife ready. The dark haired man waves him off. Mitchell continues to pull out a small black rectangular object that he places on the table.
“What's this?”
Mitchell clicks a button on it. “I call it a hush bubble. It creates a 4 foot radius sphere in which sound doesn't leave. Complete silence.”
The man smiles, “You don't trust me?”
“Not at all,” Hundred replies, wearing his own smile. “But I especially don't trust your men.”
The bearded man clicks his hand and the nearest bodyguard goes to stand a dozen feet away. “Better?” The Mayor nods. “Now what is it that is so important that you're willing to leave Christmas dinner to sit with me?”
Mitchell Hundred pauses a moment, allowing his thoughts to organise. “Well Mr Bruno Mannheim, I believe you run Metropolis...”