Post by jackalope on Oct 9, 2013 5:16:16 GMT -5
Ultimate Ex Machina #10:
Fire and Fall
Fire and Fall
August
Mayor Hundred tilts his glasses as he scans the Daily Planet. Without looking up, he takes the coffee which is placed on his desk and sips. He frowns. “Something's different about this coffee Journal...”
“Uh, Journal's not here, sir... uh, your honour,” the young male gulps, “...Mr Mayor.”
“Who are you?” Hundred asks, “And what's happened to Journal?”
“Journal's sick sir, Mayor, Mr...” He blinks and takes a breath. “I'm Thomas. I'm her replacement... temporary replacement... she said that she'd sent you an email, and sent you a text message.”
“Ah,” Hundred says. Journal usually checked those for him. “Ok, well, is she ok?”
“Yes, well, ah,” the kid flicks through his notes. “She has a throat infection but she's on antibiotics and she said she'll be back at work in a couple of days.”
“Tell Ms Moore that I don't expect to see her for the rest of the week. Two, if she needs it,” he drums his fingers on his desk, “About time she took some time off.” He looks up. “So, Thomas, Tom?” The temporary assistant shakes his head. “..Thomas. What's on the agenda today?”
“Well, ah.” He looks through his notes. “You have a meeting this afternoon with Candice Watts on the announcement, and what it may mean.”
“Announcement?” Thomas points at the paper on the desk. Hundred turns back to the front page. The headline reads 'Luther Running for Mayor' along with a large picture of the bald billionaire underneath it. The Mayor sighs, “Cancel it.”
“Huh? ...but.” The kid stops himself.
The Mayor holds back a smile. “Go on.”
“Uh, well, it's just...” He adjusts his collar. “Lex Luther in one of the richest men in the world; they say he's a genius, why...”
“Why don't I want to have a meeting to consult on it?” Hundred finishes. Thomas nods. “What you say is right; Luther's rich and very smart, but even more so, he's ambitious. The announcement is a stunt, this far out from an election. He's playing a long game, even if he does want to become Mayor, it's only as a stepping stone. He'll have a bigger plan in play.”
The personal assistant nods, still obviously trying to work out quite what he means.
“What else do we have on?” Hundred prompts.
Thomas quickly looks over his notebook, trying to find the right place. “Ah, Mr, Professor Woodrue arrives in Metropolis today. You have a meeting scheduled for 2.30pm.”
“Excellent.” Hundred smiles. “Let's make it earlier, send the limo to the airport. I want to meet him when he gets off the plane.”
Thomas hastily writes a note. “Yes, Mr Mayor.”
“Thomas,” Hundred asks, “What's with the pen and paper?”
“Oh,” He looks down at his notepad. “Ms Moore said you didn't like being around new electronics, that they annoyed you.”
'I probably don't pay her enough,' Hundred thinks.
* * *
Turpin takes a drag of his cigarette and closes his eyes. The afternoon traffic is killer, roads almost solidly packed sidewalk to sidewalk. The solidly built detective let the smoke drift from his nose and out the open window. The radio plays some sort of indie-techno-electronica, the beat drop into some Native American chanting, before being cut off.
Dan opens his eyes wide and knocks his partner's hand out of the way. “What are you doing?”
Detective Olsen frowns. “That music is terrible.”
“Maybe,” says Turpin tuning it back, “but it's my radio.” He rubs his nose, taking another drag. “I'm trying to expand my musical horizons.”
As the smoke finds its way throughout the car, the younger detective coughs. “I thought you were giving up.”
“This could be my last cigarette...” Turpin replies. He knocks the ash off out the window and turns back to Olsen. “I think you should go on a coffee run.”
The redheaded partner rolls his eyes and opened the door, without comment. Turpin let his trained eyes gaze over the scene outside. It was mid-afternoon and the streets were thick with pedestrians. The area was in a slightly more run-down part of time, a few blocks from the city centre. Behind the car he was in stood a magazine stand next to a small diner, and across the road stood a Korean nail salon beside which an alleyway hid a small bar, 'The Hell-hole.' According to a contact, the place had become a hangout for small time villains and their groupies. He knows that a place like this probably really only got going once the sun goes down, but he wants to see what he's dealing with.
A tap on the window draws him back to the present. Olsen stands holding two coffees by his window. Winding it down, the younger officer passes the cup through. “Anything?” he asks.
Turpin tastes his coffee and scowls. “It's hot.”
“You want me to blow on it?” His partner raises a red eyebrow and smirks.
Turpin growls and sips again. His eyes lock on a man walking to the bar's door. The plain looking guy, dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket, lights a cigarette and knocks on the door.
“What is it?” asks Olsen.
“Look at his clothes.”
The redhead detective squints. “There are no gang markings on his jacket...”
“No, look at his jeans.”
As Olsen stares, he can make out the fact that the front of the jeans are blue, whereas the back of them seem to be stained black, as if he had been standing in “...exhaust fumes,” he whispers.
At that moment the door opens and the man drops his cigarette and quickly looks about. Olsen turns and leans back on the car, taking a gulp of his coffee. Turpin watches carefully as the man walks inside and the door shuts. A small yelp takes his attention back to his partner, who looks sheepishly back at him. “Fuck that coffee's hot.”
Turpin turns off the radio. “What do you think?”
“He could be a mechanic or a truck driver...” He blows on his coffee, before he explains, “Like maybe he stands in front of the fumes to warm up or something.”
Turpin tilts his head. “Possible.” Unbuckling, he opens his door. “I think maybe we should go ask.”
* * *
“Thanks for coming,” whispers Hundred, before giving his girlfriend Susan Padilla a kiss.
She smiles, “Of course, how could I miss the chance to meet the great Professor Woodrue that you keep going on about?”
Bradbury opens the limo door and they step out. “The man's a genius. His work of using UV light filters to grow plants more efficiently is probably a break-through in the field of horticulture.”
She shakes her head. “I can't believe I'm going out with such a nerd...”
“Ok, Ms English Lit major.” He nudges her arm playfully and she looks back to him, catching his eyes. He looks past her. “Here they are.”
The plane's few first class passengers step off the plane. The air-hostess greeting the departing passengers points to the limo as two figures emerge. Carrying their on board luggage they approach the limo, which is parked near the edge of the private airport. Bradbury walks up and takes their luggage, except for a briefcase that the slightly eccentric looking man holds closely to his chest. Hundred steps forward, hand extended. “Professor Woodrue.”
The thin man adjusts his glasses and smiles, greeting the Mayor's handshake. “Mr Mayor, honoured to meet you.” Hundred can't help thinking that the good professor looks somewhat like a toilet-brush; dressed in a thin brown suit, his greying hair stands up and out around his head.
“I hope your flight was to your satisfaction.”
“I must admit, I didn't expect to be welcomed with such expense.”
“Nonsense, you're my guest,” Hundred reassures, as Bradbury tucks away the luggage in the car's trunk. “And on the records, I paid for you to come out here, not the tax-payer.” He looks back as Susan. “Professor Woodrue, this is Susan Padilla, Editor of Newstime Magazine.”
“Mitchell speaks highly of you,” Padilla says.
“Miss Padilla.” The Professor shakes her hand. He, in turn, introduces his companion. “This is my assistant, who also happens to be named Susan... er, uh, Linden-Thorne.”
When Mitchell catches her large hazel eyes he feels a slight jolt within his chest. Shaking it off quickly, he extends his hand, “Miss Linden-Thorne.”
The beautiful dark-haired woman takes it and smiles, her plump red lips revealing rounded white teeth. “Mr Mayor.” Her hand is warm.
* * *
Turpin knocks on the door. Waiting a moment found the sound of someone approaching the door. He holds up his badge to the small peep-hole, “Metro-P.D. - could we come in?” Dropping his hand, he smiles in a fake friendly way. There is a delay, perhaps hesitation or hiding something, then the door swings slowly open.
A shaven headed man, muscled, in a black wife-beater top looks them over, with arms crossed. “You cops?”
Turpin looks down his torso and then up and down over his partner's. He raises his eyebrows, “Looks like it...”
The man is confused; Turpin can see that he is possibly on the lower end of the I.Q. scale. “What do you want?”
“A drink,” Turpin tries.
The muscle-bound bouncer eyes them with suspicion. “We're not open...”
“Oh,” Turpin shakes his head, as if really disappointed. “Shit Olsen, they're not open. We better get going.”
The red-haired detective sighs, adding his own disappointment voice. “I'll go get the car...” He wanders off, kicking a soda can as he goes.
Turpin makes to turn and then stops, speaking before the door shuts. “Hang on. Just while you're here.” The solid detective steps forward and pulls out a picture. The drawing is of a black silhouette, flames bursting from his back and his hands. “We got a description of this creature – I mean it could be an urban legend, but you know how it is these days... Supermen, Warrior women. Supposedly, this... guy, I guess, goes by the name Firebug.” Turpin makes sure his voice is still audible through the doorway. “Or was it Flaming-fly, whatever... I mean and is he farting fire? I don't know, but I thought maybe if I could put up the picture in here, see if anyone has seen him before.” The detective tries stepping through the doorway only to be blocked by the bouncer.
“Um,” says the shaven headed guard. “How about I put up the picture and we can ring you if anyone knows anything?”
Turpin's eyes widen. “You'd really do that?” The bouncer nods, proudly. “Wow, man. You've really made my job easier. I was about to request a search of this place. I can call that off now.” He hands the large guard the drawing. “Thanks again.” Walking off down the street, he leaves the muscled man relieved, but with a slight lingering feeling of unease. He hears the door click shut.
Running down and around the corner, Turpin finds his partner holding a blond man against a wall, his arm turned up behind his back. “Look who I found crawling out a window.” The man's jeans are black with exhaust fumes.
“Climbing through window's a crime now?” the man complains.
Olsen pats down the man's pockets. “Ahuh. Look at this.” He pulls out a small pistol.
“You got a license to carry a concealed weapon?” Turpin takes the gun and looks it over.
“Ha,” the man laughs. “That's not a gun. Look, no bullets. It's a cigarette lighter.”
The older detective narrows his eyes. Holding the gun up in the air, he pulls the trigger. 3-feet of flames shoot out. Turpin looks back down at the man. “Fireguy, is it?”
“Firefly,” the man corrects.
* * *
Neon lights flickered on revealing a large laboratory, filled with shelves of glass containers, computers, and electronic devices of various uses. Professor Woodrue smiles, marching into the lab and looking over the scientific instruments. “Yes, excellent,” he murmurs, “good, good.”
“Everything to your specifications,” calls Hundred following him in, along with the two Susans. “The lighting system you ordered is on its way from Taiwan.”
“The spectrum-specific lighting?” Woodrue asks. The Mayor nods. The Professor takes off his glasses and cleans them. “Excellent. I can see where we will set them. Yes, this lab will do nicely.”
“I read something about that recently,” Susan Padilla says. “Aren't they using blue-tinted lighting to accelerate plant growth?”
“Indeed.” Woodrue replies, turning on a computer. His assistant pulls out a laptop and sets it up beside him. The Professor continues. “I, in fact, have been testing the other end of the spectrum, using near infrared waves, and studying the effects. It's showing real progress.”
Hundred finds himself staring slightly too long at the lab-assistant and pulls his eyes away. “I'm glad the lab seems to meet your needs.”
“Oh, absolutely,” agrees Woodrue. “...The things that we will grow.”
“Good, well, I'll be checking in soon,” Hundred says, watching them already getting caught up in setting up programs. “But I can see that you are already hard at work.”
“Yes, yes,” says the Professor absently. “That sounds wonderful.”
“What I think the Professor means to say is,” the younger Susan says, flashing a smile, “stop by anytime.”
* * *
Turpin and Olsen stand watching the man called Firefly, through the one-way glass of the interrogation room. Olsen looks at his older partner, who is studying the held man intently.
“Should we go in?” asks the younger detective.
Olsen ignores the question and points at the man. “What do you see?”
Olsen raises an eyebrow. “Uh, Caucasian male, late-twenties, early thirties, blond, thin...”
“Come on, you can do better than that,” Turpin says, with an unimpressed look.
“OK,” the red-haired detective tries again, looking at the man again. “Well, he's twitchy.”
He was; as the man looked about the room, every few seconds his eyes would flick to another space.
“Good, keep going.”
“Which could mean he has some attention or impulse issues? He's not sweating...”
“So...” Turpin prompts.
“So he's not afraid,” Olsen tries, “or he's good at hiding it.”
“I'd go with the former.” Turpin says, “Now look at his fingers.”
Olsen looks at the yellow-stained fingers which drum against the desk. “He's a smoker.”
The older detective nods, “Let's go.”
Entering the room, Turpin throws a manila folder and a pack of cigarettes of the table. The two detectives sit down opposite Firefly. The man stares at them, then slowly reaches across the table and grabs the cigarette packet.
“What are you doing?” Olsen asks frowning.
The larger detective carefully takes cigarette packet back and shakes his head. “You can't smoke in here,” Turpin says, taking a cigarette out and lighting it. Firefly looks slightly annoyed, but smiles. The detective opens the folder. “Mr Ted Carson... it says here that you were charged with arson when you were twenty.”
“Accused; the charge was dropped,” Ted says.
“Ah, right.” Turpin tilts his head. “I'm guessing maybe this happened more than once. You name is on the database since you were 15, but there's no official record of any charges... Hang on; you're not that Ted Carson, of the Carson-Carsons? Aren't you guys’ rich? Goldmines or something...”
“Were rich,” Olsen corrects, “Mr Carson filed for bankruptcy in 2009.”
“Oh, that sucks,” Turpin says, “Financial crisis?” Still holding his gritted-teeth smile, Carson shrugs. The detective points at the watch on the man's wrist. “Whoa, is that a real Rolex?” Ted continues to stare at the detectives. Turpin leans over to his partner. “I hear the way you can tell is that on a real Rolex, the second hand doesn't tick, it just glides around. Just like Mr Carson's here.”
“I want to see my lawyer.” Ted says, smiling.
“He's on his way,” Turpin explains, “but while you're here I was wondering if I could get your opinion on some pictures.” Laying the folder open on the table, he pushes out some photographs showing burnt remains of buildings. “Any of these look familiar?”
Carson remains looking at the cops. “I won’t say anything without my lawyer.”
“How about this one?” Turpin pushes forward a picture of a burnt apartment. “Now what's impressive about this fire is it happened on the top story apartment, which, get this, belonged to the Mayor...”
Carson's eyes flick down. Now, Turpin can see the man's smile has become real. Firefly shakes his head, “I don't know who did this, but whoever it was is obviously an artist...”
“So...” Turpin is cut off by the door opening. A grey-haired man in an expensive looking suit is followed in by the Police Commissioner Angotti.
Without looking at the detectives, the grey haired man signals Carson to come with him. “I am Mr Carson's legal representation. Anything said without my presence will be discounted, legally, in your investigations. I have checked with your superior officers and found no good evidence for why my client should be being held...”
“He had a goddamned flame-thrower,” Olsen exclaims.
“A malfunctioning cigarette lighter, I'm assured.” Ted Carson looks back and waves as he leaves. “I ask that you no longer harass my client. Failure to follow this advice will result in legal charges brought forth against your department. Thank you.” And with that, the lawyer was gone.
Turpin looks at his watch. “23 minutes. That was quick.” Turning to his partner, he holds out his hand. “You owe me $20.”
Angotti shakes her head. “Do you know who you pissed off?”
“Well, I do now.” Turpin takes the note; his partner pushes into his palm and puts it in his pocket. Looking back to the Commissioner he drops his smile. “Mannhiem... Looks like what they say is true.”
Angotti nods. “Next time, no bringing in anyone without evidence and running it past me first.” She shakes her head. “I don't need this shit...”
* * *
Susan stares ahead as she stands beside Mitchell in the elevator, leading up to his apartment.
Mayor Hundred smiles, “He looked so happy. This project is going to feed so many people.”
“He wasn't the only one who looked happy,” Padilla whispers.
“Pardon?” Mitchell asks. “Are you angry? You've barely seen anything on our way back.”
“Well I didn't spend the last hour flirting with a girl way too young for you.”
“Who? The lab assistant? Really Susan?” Hundred frowns, “Do you really think I was flirting with her? In front of you?”
Susan sighs, “Ah, I'm sorry. I'm tired.”
Hundred wraps his arm around her. “Come on Miss Padilla, let's watch some Breaking Bad.” As the doors open to his floor, he looks to her. “Do you really think she's too young for me?” Susan looks furious. “Joking, just joking.”
Susan rubs her head. “I think maybe I might head back to mine. I've got work I need to get done.”
“Ah, I'm sorry Suze. Come on, please, I didn't mean to upset you.”
“No, no,” Susan smiles, “It's OK. I'm just really tired. We'll catch up tomorrow. Honest.”
“Shit,” Mitchell says. “OK, but look. I really didn't mean to upset you.”
“I know.” Susan nods, giving him a hug. “I'll see you tomorrow. Can you hold off on watching Breaking Bad until then?”
“I think so,” Hundred lets the elevator door shut between them. He sighs and takes off his jacket, tossing it on the couch. He rolls up his sleeves while he walks into the kitchen and fills up the kettle.
“TV ON” The television switches on, immediately showing the beginning of Breaking Bad.
“CHANNEL17” he calls out.
The television switches channels and for a second, channel 17 is playing. Then the television is cycling, switching from channel to channel, blurring as frames play one after another.
“STOP,” the Mayor commands. “I SAID STOP!”
The television suddenly blinks off. There is a sound of something fizzing within in then smoke starts drifting from its side.
As he watches his T.V. fall apart, he says, “..Fuck.”