Chapter 25 – The Message
Bonita Alvarez gazed past the silhouette of her driver at the swollen river of glowing taillights that clogged the northbound side of FDR Drive. Through the undulating screen of rain, she watched bright red smudges sink into abstract eddies of grayish-blue. The melting colors reminded her of a painting by Monet she'd seen at the Metropolitan Museum. It was six thirty in the evening; usually she'd be on her way home to Astoria. But tonight she had a delivery to make.
She worked for the law partners of Cromwell, Ferris & Gould, one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. The legend she'd heard at the office was that old man Cromwell started the practice back in 1928 with a single client: Warren Worthington, the eccentric shipping and aeronautics tycoon. Currently, attending to the legal affairs of the Worthington Corporation and the Worthington Family constituted half the law firm's annual gross revenue of nearly thirty-eight billion dollars. Ten months earlier, in late December, senior partner Adam Gould had selected Bonita from the large pool of paralegals to act as courier between the firm and the family's single heir, a mysterious shut-in named Warren Worthington the Third.
"Viktor will let you in the building and show you where the executive elevator is. It'll stop at the sixtieth floor. When you get out you'll see some very large double doors. Toss everything through the mail slot and leave. Don't wait for a response." Mr. Gould had instructed her.
A few of the other legal assistants said the Worthington heir was deformed, hideously. The day after her first run, her colleagues wrung her for details. She disappointed them; she had little information to relate.
"I didn't see anything. But I heard the radio and I think he was also watching the news…"
Their interest faded quickly. The media was buzzing about multiple sightings of an angel in Manhattan. A disabled woman claimed an angelic young man had rescued her from a fire; a cop and an accountant said a guy with wings had prevented a mugging; and scores of people had witnessed a winged person pull a small child and her parents from a car before it plunged off the Brooklyn Bridge into the winter waters of the East River. With everyone consumed with wonder about a divine messenger in New York City, no one cared to ask any more questions about the strange, solitary resident of the Worthington Tower.
It was interesting to think about that time now. During the past week the world had learned that the supposed invalid isolated on the top story of the glittering skyscraper was, in fact, the elusive Angel. This visit to 500 Fifth Avenue was going to be different. The glamorous feature in New York Magazine had inspired her fellow employees to stroke her all day, begging to be informed the moment she left the Tower.
Bonita admonished them for asking. "I will keep all information about said client strictly confidential. So stop pestering me, I'm not going to tell you a thing."
There was only one person at the firm she was going to report anything to: Josh Gould, the remarkably young new associate, who also happened to be Adam Gould's son.
"Don't give this to Viktor, and don't just drop it through the slot. I need you to put these documents directly in Warren's hands, okay." With his right shoulder immobilized by his recent injury, Josh used his left arm to pass a sealed legal-sized envelope to Alvarez.
The river of taillights began to flow. She would be at the Worthington Tower in minutes.
Clusters of men standing in the rain with walkie-talkies motioned her limo towards the main entrance. Police barricades cordoned off a mob of people; many were soaked from being out in the storm. This was a major security operation. Viktor came up to the curb with an umbrella and escorted her out of the limousine into the lobby.
"Miss Alvarez, it is nice to see you. Mr. Worthington has had a very demanding week. Today, with the magazine article, things have been particularly difficult; and he has workers up there at the moment. So, you may give me what correspondence you have, I'll make sure he gets it."
"I'd like to, but I can't, Viktor. I was told to deliver this personally. I can't leave until I've seen him."
"An interesting development, Miss Alvarez. I will inform Mr. Worthington."
She proceeded down the hall to the executive elevator. She had always found the rapid rise to the top story disorienting. The panels inside gave no indication of the floors as they passed. There was only a single lit number – '60.'
Time seemed suspended during the ascent. Bonita touched her lips and realized she was smiling. After ten months, she was finally going to meet her secretive recipient. She recalled the picture on the magazine cover. Until six days ago, she'd imagined a poor soul hid in the dark whenever she arrived, shrinking from the sliver of light that filtered through the mail slot onto the floor within, lest it reveal his disfigurement.
As soon as she stepped into the corridor, she heard echoes from construction clangs and workmen's boots clomping in a vast space. She paused at the massive set of mahogany doors that led to Warren's apartment. The wood was exquisitely carved. Two stylized angels formed an arch over the threshold with their wings. The art deco figures looked similar enough to Ancient Egyptian imagery that on previous occasions she'd been spooked. Was she awakening a cursed creature from his tomb?
The brass-framed slot lay at the base on the right, between the feet of one of the angels. If she simply dropped the documents through the opening and went home, she would probably be able to justify her actions to Josh Gould. Mr. Worthington obviously did not want to be bothered. But Josh would never count on her again. He'd regret he ever trusted Bonita Alvarez to go out of her way to do her job.
She fingered the concave brass plate by the left side of the entrance and pressed the reddish-brown button that triggered the door chime. No one came. She waited. After taking a breath, she closed her eyes. The doors parted. She blinked at a slight young man with tan skin and black, wavy hair.
"Yes?" His face wasn't the one she'd expected, but she found it pleasant.
"Hi. I'm Bonita Alvarez. I have documents from the firm." He didn't back up to make room for her to enter. "I'm delivering important legal papers from Cromwell, Ferris & Gould, Mr. Worthington's lawyers…"
"I'm sorry. Please." The man withdrew and let her in.
"Thanks." She'd never been further than the corridor before. She was amazed by the size of the office – it reminded her of the main lobby of the Metropolitan. In the middle of the space, a series of platforms supported a temporary staircase that stretched beyond the cathedral ceiling through a large circular aperture. The construction was going on in an unseen upper chamber. The voices of the workers above reverberated below. "What's up there? An empty stadium?" she asked.
"It's um, kind of a staging area. We're adding a few improvements to the roof. My name's Varun Minar. I design stuff for Mr. Worthington."
Alvarez' sight darted from the scaffolding in search of her client. Fifty feet away a bank of monitors displayed multiple news channels; they were all showing photos or video of 'The Angel.' Then she saw him in the flesh. He was looking out the long windows in the southeast corner of the room while talking on the phone. Lightning from the storm outside illuminated his profile, flashing along the outlines of his wings.
"Why don't you let me take whatever it is?" Varun offered. "He's really busy…"
"No, thank you. Excuse me." Bonita started towards Warren.
"Candy, I do have the right to be upset. I know the story was out there, but I didn't expect you, my friend, someone I thought I could trust to write one!" His wings flinched. "Don't come over here… No, I mean it, Candy. I have to go." Noticing Bonita, he moved from the window and closed the phone. "You're from the firm?"
"Yes. I have something for you from Josh Gould. He said I had to place it directly in your hands." She presented the envelope.
"From Josh? He's working at the firm? Already?"
"He passed the bar in July. He's an associate," she answered.
Warren took the envelope. "What's your name?"
"Bonita Alvarez."
"You've been dropping off my mail for months, haven't you?"
"Yes. Since December. I was told not to disturb you."
"But Josh wanted you to be certain I'd get this."
"Those were his instructions," she replied. "I'll be going."
"Say hello for me." He returned to the windows, clutching the envelope.
Bonita raised her voice. "I think it's a good article."
"What?" Warren shifted his attention from the pelting rain back to Alvarez.
"The piece in New York Magazine – it explains who you are. There were a lot of strange stories going around." She crossed to leave.
"Mr. Worthington…" Viktor's voice crackled through the intercom system.
"Thanks for your opinion." Warren stepped backwards to answer the speaker on the wall. "Yeah, what's up, Viktor?"
"Miss Southern is here," Viktor replied.
"Great…" Warren observed Bonita's retreating figure. "Tell Candy she can come up."
On her way to the exit, Alvarez passed Varun, who was conferring with several workmen by the base of the construction rig. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Minar turning in her direction.
"Bye, Bonita," he said.
Warren pulled a silver letter opener from a drawer in his grandfather's old desk. The familiar family crest – an eagle atop a shield baring three swords – was engraved on the thick handle. He placed his thumb over the tiny Latin words "Semper Excelsius" stamped on the top of the shield as he sliced open the packet Bonita had delivered. Inside he found a legal document twenty pages thick with the words 'Last Will and Testament of Warren Worthington, Senior' printed at the top. There was a post-it note stuck to the first page. The short message read:
Warren,
I was digging around in the files and I found this. I think you'll find it interesting.
-Josh
Varun approached him. "They've finished the installation."
Warren looked up from a paragraph circled in red. "Let's try it."
They walked over to the towering framework that filled the opening for the stained glass skylight. Warren extended his wings and lifted himself thirty feet into the air with a single stroke. Minar crouched, covering his head with his hands, as the winged man sailed over him. The Angel slipped through the slender space between the scaffolding and the edges of the sixteen-foot wide hole into the massive zeppelin hanger. Varun scrambled up the makeshift steps.
Warren watched waves of water form wide ripples on the transparent roof. He tapped the back of his left wrist. Sheets of metal shot out from eight different directions converging centimeters below the center of the massive glass surface. The separate leaves meshed together seamlessly, like a camera shutter.
"This is quite impressive, Varun. What would happen if a helicopter was in the middle of it when it closed?"
The designer was still climbing stairs. "It would be sliced," he responded, breathing audibly. "The plates are synthesized adamantium reinforced steel, almost as strong as the pure stuff. They'll cut through practically anything."
"Really?" Warren hovered close to the underside of the metal ceiling; he inspected the material.
"You said you wanted something impenetrable." Minar rested on one of the higher platforms.
"How did you get a hold of adamantium reinforced steel?"
"I mentioned your name to someone at Worthington Labs..."
The tones of the doorbell interrupted them.
"That's gotta be Candy. You should go, Varun. The crew can come in tomorrow to dismantle the rig."
"Thanks. It's been a long day." Minar signaled to the men that it was time to leave and reversed direction.
Warren dropped a hundred and thirty feet, landing gently on the floor of the office. One of the exiting workers let Candy Southern inside. She was wearing a tight, tailored Ohne Titel silver raincoat and carrying a pink plastic bag.
"Thanks for letting me in." She strolled over to Warren.
"I shouldn't have," he said.
Candy tilted her head upwards. "Wow. What's going on here?"
"Just a few alterations."
Varun waved on his way out. "I'll see you tomorrow, Warren."
"Who's that?" asked Southern.
"His name's Varun. He's doing some work for me."
"So many people around… Do you mind if I put this down somewhere?" Candy held up the plastic bag.
Warren led her to the café table near the windows that ran along the south wall.
"I met Bonita from the firm on my way in. Cute girl, but they must not pay her enough. Horrible outfit. She looks like she just crawled out of Filene's Basement… Hey, where do you keep your champagne glasses?"
"Champagne? I should have guessed."
"We're celebrating!" Southern pulled a bottle of Duverdier champagne from the bag and unwrapped the gold foil around the cork.
"You're celebrating." Warren turned away.
"I thought you'd be no fun." She opened a cabinet next to the small table and removed two champagne flutes.
"How did you know where to find those?" he asked, taking a step closer.
"Viktor told me." Southern expertly popped open the champagne; a wisp of vapor was all that escaped. "I was just made the youngest editor at New York Magazine."
"You exploited me for your article." Warren held up his hand when she offered him one of the glasses.
"You know, you may be able to soar into the sky and look down on all of us, but there are a lot of things you don't see."
"Such as?" Warren crossed his arms.
"Things your father, and the corporation he runs which bares your name, are involved in."
"What are you talking about?"
"Perhaps you remember, five months ago, a helicopter news team reporting traffic on the West Side came across a fifty-foot tall robot firing on a group of, how shall I say, extraordinary individuals?" Candy sipped her champagne.
"Of course I remember. What's your point?"
"Do you know who built that thing?"
"Bolivar Trask. He created the Sentinel robots to wipe out mutants, I know."
"But who gave him the money? And who provided the materials and the infrastructure for Trask's Sentinel Program?"
"Some secret government agency – maybe it was SHEILD."
"You might be right. In part. But according to public records at least, Mr. Trask left government service years ago. And I found out something else. How many cybernetic technology patents do you think Bolivar Trask has filed for Worthington Labs?" She paused. Thunder cracked outside. "Sixty-two. Thirty-four over the past twelve months."
"Candy, are you saying my father is responsible for the Sentinels?"
"The Worthington Corporation has been producing billions of dollars worth of military weapons for decades; and the Armed Forces contracts only account for one fifth of the company's annual budget for defense projects. There's an undisclosed fund of twenty billion dollars…"
Warren rubbed his right temple. He thought about the adamantium reinforced steel Minar had acquired and countless other examples of obvious ties between Worthington Labs and clandestine paramilitary activities. "I need some time to process all this. I can't say what you're telling me doesn't make any sense… But, what can I do about it?"
"Aren't you a major shareholder? You can demand disclosure. You can publicly condemn the company's involvement. Since Apocalypse threatened the world, Trask has been back in business. He's probably producing a more advanced fleet of Sentinels as we speak."
"I can talk to the board." Warren glanced at the document sitting on the desk nearby. "Josh sent me a copy of my grandfather's will today. I guess Dad didn't want me to know the particulars. It's totally crazy. Grandpa gave me half of the family's voting stock as of my twenty-first birthday. And he never even knew me. He was dead before I was born…"
Candy tightened the belt of her raincoat. "I know I've laid a load of heavy stuff on you, and actually, I have to run. I'm meeting Fiona at an Alison Blaireperformance at the Guggenheim in twenty minutes. But you can do so much. Use the press and your celebrity status; thousands of people out there believe in you. Fight your father's control of the company by influencing the shareholders, and work with others like you to give the public a positive image of mutants. Listen, my friend Emma Frost wants you to come to an event. Here." She handed him a crimson colored invitation. A circle with an 'H' and an upturned pitchfork was printed on the front.
"What is this?" He skimmed the text. "The Hellfire Club? They're holding a gala reception honoring Charles Xavier?"
"It's in two weeks." Southern checked the time on her cell phone.
"This is really strange. I think my father's a member. They're in that eighteenth century building downtown on Pearl Street. I thought it was a stuffy old society group."
"You and I are both hereditary members, and they have a history that goes way back, but Emma's trying to modernize the organization. She wants them to concentrate on advocacy for mutant rights."
"Dad won't like that. He'll probably resign from the club. Xavier and the X-Men will be there?"
"I believe so. Emma just told me she saw that telekinetic redhead up near the University campus. What's her name again? Jean Green…"
"Jean Grey."
"Well, Jean and several of the others are invited."
"I'll have to think about it."
"Warren, you can't hide anymore. There are dozens of politicians throughout the country right now running on anti-mutant platforms. There's this guy upstate who just won the primary for mayor of Bayville – Edward Kelly. He wants to ban mutants from public schools." She touched his right shoulder. It made his wings twitch. "Mutants like you are being threatened. You're a Worthington. You have to do something."
"Okay. I doubt Charles and Scott will be happy to see me, but I suppose if I'm a member they can't throw me out of my own club."
"Pick me up on my roof at 7:30." She pulled her hand back and drained her glass.
"That's all right, Viktor can drive us."
"It's a party for mutants, I might as well arrive like one. Plus you hate riding in cars." Candy kissed him on the cheek and left.