[Aryan’s Perspective, The Penthouse]
The penthouse living room was bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun.
I sat on the plush leather sofa, my body relaxed, sinking into the cushions. On the wall mounted screen, a Korean variety show was playing, the volu turned low.
Kimiko sat on the other end of the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her.
"System," I thought, my gaze fixed on a potted plant in the corner of the room. "Tally the harvest."
[Right away, Boss,] the System replied, its voice buzzing with the satisfaction of a banker counting gold bars. [It’s a veritable garage sale of Golden Age superpowers. Let’s process the inventory.]
The blue interface flickered into existence.
[PLUNDER QUEUE: PROCESSING...]
[Supe Neutralized: Crimson Countess (Tier 3). Power: Pyrokinesis (Explosive Energy Generation). Choose Option: Retain or Convert?]
’Convert.’
[Conversion Complete. 1,500 XP.]
[Supe Neutralized: Mindstorm (Tier 3). Power: ntal Manipulation (Psychic Imprisonnt). Choose Option: Retain or Convert?]
’Convert.’
[Conversion Complete. 1,500 XP.]
[Supe Neutralized: Tommy (Tier 3). Power: Bio Electric Energy Blast. Choose Option: Retain or Convert?]
[Supe Neutralized: Tessa (Tier 3). Power: Bio Electric Energy Blast. Choose Option: Retain or Convert?]
’Convert both.’
[Conversion Complete. 1,500 XP.]
[Conversion Complete. 1,500 XP.]
[Supe Neutralized: Gunpowder (Tier 3). Power: Projectile Enhancent. Choose Option: Retain or Convert?]
’Convert.’
[Conversion Complete. 1,500 XP.]
The notifications cleared.
[HARVEST COMPLETE]
[TOTAL XP GAINED: 7,500]
[PREVIOUS BALANCE: 19,100]
[CURRENT XP: 26,600]
I let out a slow breath. Twenty six thousand, six hundred experience points. Enough to push many power to the upper echelons, or to save for a rainy day.
"What are you thinking about?"
The voice was soft.
I blinked, the blue interface vanishing from my vision. I turned my head. Kimiko had muted the TV.
She was leaning forward, her chin resting on her palm, studying my face with an intensity that missed nothing.
"Nothing," I said, putting on my best ’innocent’ smile. "Just... thinking about work. Boring stuff. Logistics and supply chains."
"Liar," she whispered, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"I’m serious," I protested, holding up my hands. "I was thinking about... shipping manifests. Very riveting stuff. You wouldn’t be interested."
"Really?" she asked, sliding closer on the sofa.
"Really," I insisted, leaning back slightly.
She reached out, her finger hovering inches from my ribs. "You look... serious. Too serious for shipping manifests."
"I take shipping very seriously," I said, trying to maintain my composure. "If the cargo is late, people get upset. It’s a high stress industry."
"Liar," she repeated.
And then her fingers dug into my ribs.
I jerked, a laugh escaping before I could stop it. "Hey! Stop!"
She moved in, her attacks relentless.
"Confess," she said, her eyes dancing with mischief. "What were you thinking?"
"I told you!" I gasped, trying to catch her wrists, but she was fast, slipping through my guard. "Work! I was thinking about work!"
"Boring," she declared, digging her knuckles into my side.
"Okay, okay!" I laughed, finally managing to pin her wrists. I pulled her hands away from my ribs, but she just used the leverage to launch herself forward, tackling back into the cushions. "I was thinking about... how terrible that show is."
I nodded at the TV.
She paused, looking at the screen, then back at . She burst out laughing, a genuine sound that filled the room.
"It is bad," she agreed. "But the costus are pretty."
...
Vought Tower.
Ninety Ninth Floor.
Holander sat at the head of the long table.
He was staring at a glass of milk sitting in the center of the table. He was watching the way the light reflected off the white surface.
His mind was a fractured landscape. He had killed Madelyn. He had killed the only person who had ever offered him love. He had done it because she had lied to him, because she was afraid of him.
And then he found the boy.
Ryan.
His son.
He looked out the window. The city was down there, millions of ants scurrying about their aningless lives.
The silence of the room was shattered by the shrill ring of the secure telephone line on the side console.
Once. Twice. Three tis.
Who would dare call him here? Now?
Finally, with a sigh of irritation that ruffled the papers on the table, he reached out and pressed the speaker button.
"What?" he snapped.
"S-sir," the voice of a junior assistant trembled through the speaker. "I... I apologize deeply for disturbing you."
"Then why are you speaking?" Holander asked, his eyes beginning to glow with a red heat.
"It’s... there’s a call, sir. On the priority line. He... he insisted."
"Who?"
"He claims to be... well, he claims to be Soldier Boy, sir."
The red glow in Holander’s eyes vanished instantly.
Soldier Boy. The legend. The man who had died a hero’s death stopping a nuclear ltdown in 1984. The man whose statue stood in the plaza below.
"That’s impossible," Holander whispered.
"I told him that, sir," the assistant stamred. "But he... he said you would want to hear this."
"Put him through," Holander commanded.
There was a click, a hiss of static and then a voice filled the room.
"Is this really you?" Holander asked, his voice low.
"I thought we should have a conversation." the voice on the other end said. It was dripping with an old school masculinity that sounded like unfiltered cigarettes and bourbon.
"I don’t know who the fuck you think you are," Holander snarled.
"1980," the voice cut him off. "I got called into Vogelbaum’s lab for an experint. So shit about genetics."
Holander froze. Vogelbaum. The man who had made him.
"I still rember the penthouse I used," the voice continued, rambling slightly, like an old man recalling a fond mory. "June. Danielle. Great rack. Bush like a poranian."
"What?" Holander breathed, the absurdity of the detail catching him off guard.
"I beat my at into a cup," the voice said bluntly. "Required for the ’science,’ they said. Turns out, Vogelbaum made a kid. Born spring 1981. A boy."
Holander gripped the edge of the table, the wood groaning under his fingers. 1981. His birth year.
"You know who the bitch is?" the voice said, a bitter edge entering the tone. "If they had just kept around... I’d have let you take the spotlight. What father wouldn’t want that for his son?"
Click.
The line went dead.
Holander stood there, the phone humming with the dial tone.
Father.
The word bounced around his skull like a ricocheting bullet.
Vought had told him he was grown from a test tube, a perfect creation with no parents. He was unique. He was the immaculate conception of Arican exceptionalism.
But Soldier Boy... Soldier Boy was the only one who ca close.
Holander looked at his reflection in the dark window. He looked at his jawline. His eyes.
He launched himself from the room, the sonic boom of his departure shattering the expensive glass pitcher on the table.
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