Ultimate Ex Machina #9: 50 Days of Summer

[jackalope]

Ultimate Ex Machina
#9: 50 Days of Summer

May


“How's he doing?” Dave Wylie asks Ray Bradbury. The tall bodyguard shrugs. Dave nods, putting his hands in his jacket pockets. Same as every other day; sleeping - or more likely dreaming they thought. Whatever that meant. Through the outside window of the room he watches the Mayor, a dozen wires and tubes coming out from him, monitoring and feeding him. At least he was breathing on his own. Beside him, his mother sits, reading. On the other side, 6 or 7 vases of flowers and a hundred or so cards. There were more, but there was only so much room. He'd had the others distributed amongst the other patients of the hospital. He is sure Mitchell would have approved. Would approve. He wasn't dead. “Just sleeping,” Dave murmurs. The bodyguard looks at him, his face unreadable.

A blond nurse walks to the entrance holding her hospital I.D. up and Bradbury stands aside. She smiles at Martha Hundred, who looks up and then returns to her book. The nurse takes the mayor's arm, tapping it to find a free vein. She inserts a needle and draws blood. Replacing a cap onto the end of the needle, she wipes the blood off his arm, placing a small bandage on that spot. She checks the drip and the level of the IV bag. Moving with a professional ease, she picks up the medical file hanging from the clipboard of the bed and scans over it briefly. Returning it, she sways slightly as she leaves.

“Excuse me,” Dave says, “Nurse.” The nurse stops, a second passes and she turns around, smiling. With a blink of her large pretty green eyes, she raises a dark eyebrow. “Any word on his progress?”

“Not yet...,” she replies. She holds the tube containing the Mayor's blood up. “Hopefully the blood test should tell us more.” He nods and she continues off down the sterile white corridor. Passing the other way Journal frowns as she catches the nurse’s face.

Walking up to Dave Wylie and Ray Bradbury she holds up a cardboard box of three takeaway coffees. “We have to get going soon; you've got a school opening.”

“Thank fuck,” Bradbury announces, to Dave's surprise. He grabs the cup greedily, explaining, “The shit they serve here is terrible.”

The acting-Mayor looks back to Journal. “What's with the look?”

“Look?”

“You gave that nurse a look,” he says, taking his own coffee cup.

“Oh, she just looked familiar, like this new girl who's temping down at the office.”

Wylie and Bradbury look to one another. The bodyguard sighs and hands him his cup “Don't drink it.” Bradbury runs after the nurse, holding his radio. “Please intercept, blond, late 20s female, Caucasian...” He disappears behind a set of pale blue swinging doors.

“Holy crap,” Journal says, suddenly worried. “I wasn't sure of anything.”

“Don't worry,” Dave reassures. “It's probably nothing, but better safe then sorry, especially after...” He looks down to third coffee she holds. “That for you?”

The personal assistant shakes her head, nodding towards the room where Mrs Hundred sat with her son.

“I better see if Bradbury found anything. You should bring it into her. It's been a while since you've talked to her, right?” Wylie walks off towards where the bodyguard had run. He calls back, “Meet you in twenty.”

Journal looks back to the comatose Mayor and his mother sitting patiently beside him. Tentatively, she walks in. Martha Hundred looks up from her book. “Mrs Hundred...” Journal holds out the coffee in front of her. “I got you some coffee.”

With a warm smile Mitchell's widowed mother stands and holds her arms out. “Journal, how are you doing you sweet girl?”

“Uh, I'm good.” As they hug, Journal suddenly feels a wave of guilt for not have come by more often. “How are y... I mean, how is...”

“I'm fine, and Mitchell's fine too. As far as they can tell.”

Still hugging, Journal starts to feel tears welling in her eyes. “I'm sorry I haven't...”

Ending the embrace but still holding her arms, Martha shakes her head. “Hush. I'm retired. I have the privilege of being able to be around here. You're a busy woman. There's not much to see anyway. I read, listen to the radio or music.” Letting go of the young P.A., she looks down at her son. “Truth be told I'm not sure I even know what music he's into.” She looks back at Journal, “Do you have any idea?”

Journal shakes her head. “I never heard him listen to anything in particular. Mainly he just criticised my music taste.”

Mrs Hundred laughs. “That sounds like Mitchell.” She can see Journal's eyes carefully watching her son breath in and out. “Do you mind staying here for a couple of minutes? I've just got to use the ladies' room.”

“Uh.” Journal nods, “OK.”

Quietly, Mrs Hundred slips out from the room. The young blond woman walks up Hundred's bed, trying to see if any injury was visible. At the top of his hospital gown, just under his neck she can see a thin green line ending in a diode, barely visible under the skin. His face was smooth, she wonders whether a nurse shaves it, or more likely his mother. Such dedication makes her feel terrible.

“I'm sorry I haven't... visited.” Journal shakes her head, looking up from her feet to the beeping heart monitor. “Shit, sorry. I don't know if you can even hear me. They say you're asleep. Like you're stuck in a dream.” Trying to distract herself she raises her touch screen and starts flicking through her schedule. “I've tried to keep Mr Wylie up to date. Actually he's probably more organised than you are... but it's not the same.”

She looks around. For this short space in time they seem left alone. “I don't get why you won’t wake up.” Her voice breaks and she wipes tears from around her eyes. “See this is why I didn't come.” She smiles briefly. “You know, I never did tell you this, but when you started flying around, calling yourself the “Great Machine” I hated you. My sister loved you, but to me you seemed like just another super hero poser. Then the invasion happened and you saved my dad. My pop is alive because you flew up and shut that alien thing down.”

“That's when I realised that I...” Hesitating, she holds her lips closed. “I better go; your mum will be back soon. Just... don't die like this. And whatever you're dreaming, I hope it's happy.” She leans over and kisses his lips.

A small spark of static leaps between them.

Suddenly, with a desperate gasp, Mitchell rips the tubes from his nose, pushing himself up. Journal falls back. Panting, the Mayor pulls at the wires from his chest, as he does the lights of whole hospital flicker and flash. The room is dark for a few seconds before emergency lighting turns on.

“Garden,” he coughs, wiping his nose.

With wide-eyes, Journal scrambles out of the door and calls for help.

*

Downstairs a woman in a nurse uniform dumps her blond wig and slips from view.

* * *

June


Matty finds the Mayor on the top of a 27 story apartment, overlooking Centennial Park and surrounded in greenery. He looks good, the journalist admits, healthy. There is a lingering trace of discomfort in Hundred's smile, but as the warm summer wind breezes by the man did not look like someone who had been lying in a pool of his own blood two months prior.

“Matty!”

Mitchell Hundred's voice snaps Roth's mind back to the present. He smiles as he walks through the brick pathway, trying to decipher the purpose of their meeting. “Welcome back to the land of the living Mr Mayor,” he calls.

“Thank you.” Hundred holds his arms out, returning his own grin. “What do you think of the place?”

Looking around, the roof is covered in a series of criss-crossing paths dividing a number of rectangular boxes each containing a mound of rich black dirt. Currently a small army of what looked like 20 something alt-hipsters, led by a few aging hippies, were digging, carting and filling the boxes with a variety of shrubs, seeds and vegetables. The place smelled like shit, but somehow it wasn't unpleasant, it was earthy. Real. “It's very... green.”

“Isn't it?” Hundred sighs, drawing in a large breath. “Currently it's being run by this pack of dedicated volunteers, but eventually they'll be run under Parks and Recreation, if I can convince the council to up the funding.”

“They'll?” The young journalist finds his curiosity growing within him, contrary to what he had promised himself. “As in more than one?”

“There are two abandoned buildings I've got lined up back on the mainland. Both in the older industrial area and smaller than this one. They're being looked at for demolition, nothing structural, just other commercial interests but I've asked to put a stay on that for a couple of months why I try to push this.” Mitchell starts moving across the rooftop, leading Roth through the flora. “This building is the most central, on the edge of Southside and New Troy. It was about to be converted into an upmarket apartment complex for young white kids who find it cool to live in the area. I read about it somewhere: How the City of Yesterday is being lost in the Metropolis of Tomorrow...” As the Mayor turns to look back at Matty, he raises an eyebrow, “Sound familiar?”

“Ah,” Matty says, forcing a smile, “You read my article.”

“Of course. You're my favourite journalist.” He taps his chin, “Shit... I forgot Suzy, so second favourite.” The Mayor laughs, “Let's just say your favourite journalist I'm not sleeping with.”

“How is Suzanne?” Roth asks, pushing the conversation away from his writing.

“She's good. Relieved, which is nice to hear. I mean, off the record of course, she had a rough time- she was right near by when it happened, but somehow she was able cope and keep working, whilst visiting me in hospital almost every night.” Hundred shakes his head in admiration. “She's pretty amazing really.”

“And the investigation – any progress on the guy that shot you?” Matty finds he can't help but ask.

“Nothing beyond what the media has, as far as I know.” All the media had was one sketchy description of man in a dressed in purple and orange, carrying a bow, who somehow appeared and then disappeared from sight, a block away. This had led to the speculation that the assassination had been some sort of deadly gay-rights protest (and confusing considering Hundred's well known views on the subject), supported by the headline: Who is the Rainbow Archer?

“Anyway,” Mitchell says, waving his hand. “Enough about the past, I want to show you what's happening now, here.”

The Mayor's enthusiasm didn't seem to be affecting the young journalist's scepticism. Matty takes a 360 degree look at it all. “Roof-top gardening...”

“It's more than that.” Hundred crouches down and lifts a small green tomato hanging from a pant. “This is about feeding a city.”

“I'm not sure three roof-top gardens will...”

“I said the floors are empty. This building is going to house a multi-storied garden. We're going to lead the way.”

Matty frowns. “That's a lot of lighting to keep that many plants growing. Expensive.”

“The Aether towers provide more than enough power.” Mitchell stands, brushing his knees down. “I'm even flying in an expert to help out on the project. A Professor Woodrue; genius I'm told.”

Roth lifts his cap and scratches his shaggy black hair. He narrows his eyes, “So you want to feed Metropolis, as well as give it free power.”

“Why not?” Hundred keeps walking through the garden. “Look, they're already working on this stuff in Norway and Taiwan, so why not just do it? I... we can make a real difference.” Taking a step back towards Matty, he drops his voice, “Do you not think I how much some of my citizens live on around here? How some can barely feed themselves day to day? How some people live their whole lives never having eaten a fresh vegetable? How the number one cause of death in America is heart disease? How organic farmers get forced out of business by large amoral chemical companies limiting the range of choice of what we get to eat...” Hundred looks out over the roof top. “Did I mention this is all organic... There are so many reasons to do this.”

Matty shrugs, “OK. It sounds great.”

“Well, do you need to write down any of it? Do you have any more questions?”

“For what?” Matty asks, confused.

“For the article,” the Mayor replies laughing. “That's why I asked you here, to see this – you're the first person from the media to see this. The whole thing came to me in a dream- you can include that...”

“I'm honoured, Mayor, sir,” Matty interrupts, “But I'm not really looking for a story.”

Now Mitchell is confused. “I'm giving you first coverage on this. You haven't written anything on your website for weeks – right now it says it's closed for maintenance. I'm doing you a solid.”

“And, thank you but like I said, I'm not looking for help...”

“I could have gone elsewhere,” the Mayor says, indicating towards the giant Daily Planet globe rotating in the distance behind him, “But I'm trying to help you here, because, well you’re my favourite journalist I'm not sleeping with, and you're a friend.”

“I didn't ask for your fucking help!” Matty clenches his jaw, feeling the blood rush to his face. He forces himself to not look around, as he's fairly certain the workers on the roof a staring at him with the same expression that the Mayor is right now. He pulls the anger back within him, as to not yell at the elected leader of Metropolis again. Quietly, he continues, “I don't know what this is, if you really think of me as a friend or just another cog in the machine to get whatever you have planned next done, but I'm not your propaganda writer, and you don't own me.”

“Matt...”

Before Hundred could start Roth cut in. “Now I know I obviously got close to some shit that I shouldn't have been sniffing, but I got the message loud and clear! I've dropped it. And now you want me to write about some fucking garden you saw in a dream – what, to make up for it?! As if you're throwing me a bone?” Shoving his balled hands into his hoodie pockets, Matty whispers loudly, “I don't need your fucking charity!”

The Mayor stares in disbelief as Matty Roth quickly leaves.

*

An alt-chick, with dyed red hair, watches from behind the raspberry bushes. Putting down her spade, she makes a call.

* * *

July


The night is dark and warm as a black car pulls up in Metropolis' China-town. Bustling with music and people, the streets are lit with neon signs and red paper lanterns. The car-door opens and Mitchell steps out, followed closely the tall Bradbury. Swiftly they move through the sidewalk crowd, moving into an alleyway where a number of smaller shops and restaurants sit, quietly. Lit only by a single paper lantern, an unmarked red door stands in the brick wall. Outside, sitting on steps or leaning against the wall, five Asian men, and three Caucasian, wait. Something tells Hundred that they were only the ones that wanted to be seen.

None of the men make a move, as the Mayor and his bodyguard walk up to the door. Hundred slowly looks about, then lifts his hand and knocks. For a moment nothing happens, and then he hears the sound of a peephole cover being pushed aside. A few more seconds pass and finally the door opens. In stands a huge broad-shouldered Asian man, bald, with a distrustful look in his eyes.

“Hi,” Mitchell says carefully, “I hear this is the best restaurant in China-town.”

The guard stares at them, breathing through his mouth. “I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid you have the wrong location.”

Mitchell looks at the lantern then back at the large bald man. “I'm fairly certain I've got the right place.”

“I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid you've...”

“Wu,” a voice from behind the man interrupts. “Let the good Mayor in, he's hungry.”

“Yes Grandfather,” Without changing his expression, Wu stands aside. The Mayor passes and Wu blocks the entrance way before Bradbury can follow. “Just him,” he explains, “not you.”

Ray Bradbury scowls, reaching behind his jacket, until Hundred stops him. “It's OK Ray. Just wait for me out here. I won’t be long.”

Bradbury backs up and the door closes. Turning he sees the other men watching him. On at least half of them he can make out the shape of handguns, hanging on their belts or in shoulder holsters. One of the Asians drops his cigarette, and steps on it. Bradbury, unimpressed and unintimidated, leans against the wall beside the door.

Inside, Hundred is led through a short corridor into a long narrow restaurant. A couple of African-Americans in tailored black suits look up from a delicious looking fish dish between them. Three older Asian women and one white guy sit around a table playing Mah-jong. Half a dozen Asian men sit under a large wall-mounted fan, smoking, drinking and feasting, while speaking to each other in Cantonese. In the corner sits one grey haired Asian man and beside him, Bruno Mannhiem.

Mitchell walks down the narrow path between the tables and stops in front of the crime boss. Pulling out a chair, he sits down. Only then does Bruno look up from his meal, and he turns to the man he's sitting next to. “This was the best yet, I tell you.” His chopsticks grab another piece of what Mitchell guesses is duck, and he brings it up to his mouth.

“You say that every time you ugly white man.” The Asian man says, smiling and shaking his head. “One day I'm going to stop believing you.” He turns to the Mayor and narrows his eyes. “So I heard you say that this is the best restaurant in China-town. I have to admit, not many people know about this place, Mr Mayor. May I ask how you heard about it?” The man is polite, but there is a hidden power in his voice, not strained like he was trying to prove something, but relaxed and commanding, as if had the right to know. Looking at him, his long grey hair and whiskers, Mitchell places his age at around 50, but he could have easily been 15 years younger or older. He wonders whether he should be afraid.

“One of the perks of Mayor,” Hundred replies smiling. “You get a lot of recommendations.”

“Well it's great you found the place,” Mannhiem says between bites, “You're in for a treat, Wilson here is going to cook you something special. When you said the best in China-town you were wrong, it's the best in Metropolis.”

“Great, I look forward to it,” the Mayor says, not taking his eyes off Mannhiem. Behind him, one of the dim golden light bulbs flickers.

Wilson stands and stretches. “I'll see what I can find for you, Mr Mayor.” Lighting a cigarette, he wanders into the kitchen.

Hundred clasps he hands in front of him, leaning them on the table. “You're a hard man to get hold of Bruno.”

Putting his chopsticks down, Mannhiem lifts a glass of whisky to his lips and downs half of it. Putting it back down, he dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Well, it looks like you found me, Mitch.”

Looking at him in the full light, Mitchell couldn't help be intimidated by the infamous crime lord. He was a solid man, who probably stood at least 6' 5”. Thick black hair covered his head, brow and lower face. His eyes were brown, narrow, and whenever they connected they seemed to be looking inside him, watching his brain turning or heart pumping. His hands were like gauntlets, his arms massive. He looked like a MMA fighter, and the scariest thing was he didn't act like it.

Even now, as he folds his napkin, Mitchell couldn't help picturing him reaching across the table and breaking his neck.

“Now that we are in each other’s company, was there something you wanted to ask?”

Mitchell focuses on his breathing. “Matty Roth...”

“The writer?” Mannhiem asks innocently.

“Of course the writer. He told me he was threatened...” Mitchell tries to keep his voice quiet but firm.

Bruno's deep voice remains at regular volume. “Well perhaps he was looking into something he shouldn't have been.” At the Mayor's flash of anger, he lifts his eyebrows. “Do you really want the world to know who 'donated' the land needed to build those Aether Towers you're so fond of?” Taking another bite of his meal, he tilts his head, “I was doing you a favour. I know you like the kid.”

Mitchell forces himself to not look surprised. His eyes focus on Mannheim’s as his mind suddenly makes a connection. “...O'Donnell?”

“Now with him I was definitely to a favour.” The crime lord takes another gulp of his drink. “I know you hated that guy's guts.” He smiles, “I mean I don't blame you, the guy was a cunt, excuse my language – we wouldn't have got anything passed with him around.”

“Pherson?”

“Ha.” Bruno's laugh is like a boom, causing the other tables to pause a moment before continuing. “Nothing to do with me. That's your crazy baggage.”

“The break in.” Hundred rubs his eyes, making a final realisation. “The arrow... the archer.”

“How lucky is it that he didn't hit anything vital? I mean what are the odds, right in the chest and no major organs hit.” Finishing the last of his rice, Bruno wipes a stray grain that had caught in his beard.”And I hear a survival story comes with a lot of public support. You'll probably be able to push through that garden thing you're working on, no problem.”

At that moment a dish is placed in front of him. Some sort of squid dish in a pink sauce. It smells delicious.

Bruno Mannhiem points at it with his chopsticks. “Try that and tell me it’s not the best thing you've ever tasted.”

Hundred tries not to throw up.