Post by jackalope on Nov 1, 2012 4:44:41 GMT -5
Ultimate Ex Machina #1: The Man with the Plan
October, 2012
Mayor Hundred moved through the select few city workers, social workers, Council men and women, striding towards the podium, as a barrage of lights hit from the firing lines of the media. Ahead of him, the tall, blond Ray Bradbury, his bodyguard carefully scans the crowd, talking into his ear-piece. Hundred spots his target and pushes his smile as wide as he can before it starts to look unnatural. He can hear the city calling out to him in two voices, the mass of families, media and locals standing outside city-hall... And the other voice. Faintly he can make out the Borough President of New Troy, Mary Patterson, introducing him; she steps back and looks to him, signaling his time to move. The crowd claps as he lifts his arm to wave. He shakes her hand, leaning in to kiss her cheek and quickly whisper, “Thanks.” Turning to face the people, he lifts his hand to quieten them. “Thank you for that undeserved introduction.”
“Last QwEECK*#^” The microphone squeaks. He looks at it for a second, raising an eyebrow. A ripple of laughter passes through the crowd, fading quickly. His eyes flick back to them He clears his throat. Warm smile.
“Last week I was talking with a friend. We got to discussing the state of things. The world. The Country. This City.” He pauses a moment for effect. “He, of course, was pessimistic. Education. Crime. The Economy. For many, things look worse now than they have in a long time. We all admit that these are hard times, tough times for everybody.” Looking out he can see people nodding silently. He places his hands on the podium, leaning slightly forward.
“I feel his sentiment. I do. I see it often in the news and in the everyday lives of the citizens of this great city.” He looks out into the countless eyes looking back at him. “But, I said to my friend, this isn't how it ends. Poverty, homicide, drugs- these aren't problems we just have to accept. Our world is changing, just as this city is changing. This is the city of tomorrow. Each day a new sun rises and it seems to shine brighter and more clearly than ever before.” He can feel the crowd, an energy feedback to him, he can sense them taking notice.
“And each day new heroes rise to the challenges that await us. Brave and resourceful people, willing to give some of themselves to fighting for causes they believe in. These heroes do not wear capes and costumes, they do not do it for the fame or the glory, and because of this they deserve our admiration.” The cameras glare at him, watching him with their unblinking eyes. He stands tall. “So, on this beautiful Metropolis day, I have the honour of awarding one of these unsung heroes for his tireless work in funding and managing the Waterfront Restoration Project. A project that has reduced crime by over 70% and significantly improved the lives of the residents of Southside. On behalf of the people of Metropolis, I, Mayor Hundred, would like to present Lex Luthor with the Key to the City.”
The crowd surges with applause. He steps back and sees the man himself approaching, walking with the confidence of an apex predator. Hundred smiles, reaching out his hand to the billionaire. Grasping one another, they pause for a moment, allowing a flurry of shots from the bank of cameras to capture and transfer this moment to the world. Luthor's hand is firm but relaxed. Even if he was a machine, Mitchell thinks, he would probably be unreadable.
Amidst the noise Lex's mouth moves. “Nice speech.” Hundred nods once and steps back, letting the 'hero' have his moment. As he stands, he wonders whether his stomach is churning or his blood is boiling.
*
click
The thin, unshaven photographer focuses the lens of his digital camera, before snapping off a couple more shots. Lifting his eyes up, he turns his black Metropolis Meteors baseball cap back so it faces front. He checks the images, scrolling quickly through them and quickly deleting any slightly blurry ones. Lex Luthor's booming voice washes over the crowd, not quite as eloquent as the Mayor's, but definitely demanding respect. Around him he can see the other journalists and news stations carefully trying to capture every angle for the evening news. Looking up at the podium in front magnificent city council building, arranged with an eye for aesthetics. He turns and starts to push his way back through the crowd. Someone grabs his arm.
“Matt.” He turns to see, a somewhat familiar face. “Matty Roth?” her voice snaps his memory into gear. Suzanne Padilla. Precariously approaching middle-age, between good genetics, make-up, and dark red hair dye, she looks good. She smiles at him, raising an eyebrow. “I've been hoping to run into you.”
“Hey Suzy,” he replies in a harsh whisper, still conscious of the speech echoing around them. “How goes? Still with CNN?”
She shakes her head. “No not right now.” She looks back as her photographer nudges her. “Listen, I've got to cover this, but would you stick around another ten? I really want to pick your brain.” Matt scratches the back of his head. “...I'll buy you a coffee?”
*
She passes him a large black coffee and takes hers from the counter. Looking at the rings under his eyes, Suzanne pouts her dark red lips. “Looks like you could use this.”
Matt shakes his head. “Just a few late ones. Zee works nights half the time and I try to stay up for her.” He sips, then sucks in air through his teeth in pain. He blows over the liquid magma.
“You're still seeing the nurse?”
“Doctor.” He attempts another sip. “Or almost. She's volunteering at the free clinic for her residency” Pushing his limp black hair out of his face, he looks at Suzanne. “... You wanted to pick my brain?”
She nods. “As I was saying before, I'm not with CNN anymore. For the last year I've been working with Newstime magazine...”
“Congrats.”
“Thanks,” she says quickly flicking her hair back. “It's been good. Really good, I'm actually probably less than a year from being an editor.”
“Wow.” Matty nods, impressed. “Fuckin' aye. Good job Suzy, you deserve it.”
“Well here's the thing, the Mayor's coming up on the end of his first term as mayor...” She pauses. “...and rumour has it he's looking for someone to cover him in the run up to the election. I thought maybe, since you know him...?”
“I've met him.” Matt takes a gulp of his far-too-hot coffee. “There's a difference.”
“You covered his unmasking!” She has to stop her voice from rising. “Plus you got 'the shot'.” Matt shakes his head. That fucking shot. It all stemmed from there. “Look, I don't even need an intro, just let me use your name to get an interview. You owe me remember. I managed to help get your camera back after the whole 'Occupy' thing.” Her brown eyes become large and then narrow. “Wait- he hasn't contacted you about the story, has he?”
“No!” Matt rolls his eyes, “Fine, just don't use my name in the story. I'm trying to keep out of all of that.”
“Then why were you at the ceremony?”
“I work freelance now. I'm writing for the culture section of an online magazine...”
“Let me guess.” She smiles, “You're writing some piece on the cultural destruction caused by the cleanup of Suicide Slums?” Her sarcastic tone drops as she sees his face. “Oh, you are, aren't you?”
“...How the City of Yesterday is being lost in the Metropolis of Tomorrow.” He sighs. “Working title.”
* * *
The faint bitter smell of rubbish lingers in the air, as a garbage barge passes nearby Metropolis docks. Huge containers are lifted by even larger cranes, and rearranged in a tetras puzzle as new ships flow in and out of the port. Trucks and men pass in and out. Seagulls float overhead. A coast guard car slowly drives down a pathway.
“Oh yeah, usually it's just some paperwork being misplaced, but of course, the Coast Guard is always interested in such situations.” The heavy set coast guard does a quick half-salute to make his point.
“Around the corner at the end here,” the Dock Worker in the back points.
“I mean people try to smuggle stuff in constantly. It happens all the time, a container ship goes to sea with 100 containers, it comes into port with 101.” The truck stops and the three passengers hop out.
“Down this way.” The orange hard-hatted figure leads the way, the two Coast Guard follow.
“Mostly it's drugs, from China, Thailand, or Columbia, in which case we'll call the D.E.A., but seeing as it's you who contacted us that's unlikely.” The three figures make their way towards a singular red painted container at the end of a row. “Drug cartels usually pay off the dock workers to take care of it."
The dock worker lifts his tablet, scrolling down to make sure it's the right one. “This is it. Number 2447QT. Came in three hours ago from a ship from India.”
“Of course sometimes it's people, stolen merchandise, cars, exotic animals, heh one time we opened one of these and hundreds of bats flew out. Turns out some rich bastard was trying to cultivate Guano from the bat poop and decided to get it straight from the source. Gotta love the American spirit of enterprise.” The huge crate locks are removed with industrial bolt-cutters and the latches are unlocked. “Okay boys; let's see what we have here.”
The door is swung open. A faint rotting smell emanates from the long darkness. The wind sounds like breathing.
“Hello?..oo....o.” The larger Coast Guard's voice echoes into the space. His partner hands him a flashlight that he bangs against his knee until it works. The spotlight traces the up the container floor past dark red smears until it catches a dozen small reflective eyes. “What the...”
“KILL THEM.”
Two tigers pounce on to the Coast Guard, mauling their throats. The running Dock Worker is caught by a huge fist around his ankle. The gorilla breaks his neck. The three creatures look back to the container entrance as the huge black mamba slithers out, followed by a dark cloaked man with a gray parrot sitting on his shoulder. For a second his right eye seems to glow violet.
“Welcome home.”
* * *
“How'd it go?” Mayor Hundred leans back and looks to the black man in the dark grey suit that enters his office, shutting the door behind him. “Honestly.”
“Good.” Dave Wylie, the Deputy Mayor replies with an amused smile.
“Good? The whole 'each day a new sun rises' wasn't too cheesy?” Hundred places leans his head on his hand.
“Nope.” Wylie brings over a couple of glasses and places them on the table. “Just the right amount of cheese.” He pours a quarter of whiskey in each. “They loved it. In fact the only person not seeming to enjoy it out there was you.”
“Shit, you noticed? Sorry.” Mitchell picks up the glass and takes a sip. “I just don't know what I'm doing sometime Dave.”
“That’s good,” the Deputy Mayor replies lifting his glass, “It's the ones with the plans you got to worry about.” Both men smile. “Anyway, Journal says you have an interview for Newstime.”
“Yeah, tomorrow. I wouldn't bother if Candice didn't think it was a good idea for the re-election.” He looks down at the campaign flyer on his desk “I'm going to need you to cover me at the art gallery opening.”
“I wouldn't be worried about the interview, you're polling well.” Dave nods. “What type of show is it?”
“I think it's some protest piece with a whole lot of naked art school girls running around covered in paint.”
“I guess I'll have to suffer through that, but if my wife calls I'm blaming you.” As Hundred laughs, Wylie downs the rest of his glass. “We're going to have to talk about what we're going to do with your second term soon.”
“I know,” Hundred nods, tilting his glass. In the reflection he can see the large photograph that hangs behind him. A huge craft floating over Metropolis, metallic tendrils extending from it. The City is burning. In the center of the image is the Great Machine's back. His rocket pack holding him high in the sky, his black gloved hand extends towards the alien invader, as if to command it. STOP. Mitchell finishes the whiskey in his glass and puts it down. “It's the ones with the plans you got to worry about.”