The Monster You've Become
by Ulquiorra9000
PART II: TRUE COLORS
Chapter 8: Taking The Next Step
Storm Family Palace, Solaris City, Solaris VII
Lyran Commonwealth
July 17th, 3056
Mac bared his teeth as he strained to hoise the bar up one last time to finish his set, right there in the mansion's home gym, and his arms trembled. Almost there... almost! Mac's shoulders burned and he grunted with effort.
"Thirty!" Mac set the weighted bar onto their rack and glanced up at the spotter, who gave him a nod of approval.
"You did well, Mr. Storm," the private trainer said. "Your form gets better every day."
"Good... to know." 16-year-old Mac Storm was the very image of youthful vigor and strength, and sweating it out in the home gym felt pretty fucking great, especially when he had some problems to take his mind off of. Every month, he needed this gym to escape more and more bullshit. And 3056 was treating him rougher than any other year.
Mac sat up on the padded bench and held out his hand. His trainer handed him a post-workout drink, and Mac chugged it in one go. Mac handed the bottle back, got up, and wiped his face with a towel while mulling things over. He barely finished with his weights when all his other problems came crashing back into his mind, like a breached dam. Would he never get any peace?
Twenty minutes later, after a good shower and putting on some well-tailored clothes, Mac made his way to the mansion's east wing, right into the accounting office. Old Holly Wilks, head of the accounting department, looked up from her desk and saw the look on Mac's face.
"I wish the news were better, Mr. Storm," she said.
Mac grunted as he folded his arms, leaning on a nearby wall. "Let's hear it, Holly."
Holly looked down at her printed spreadsheets. "The Thunder Blast stable is still eight months away, at the very least, from becoming profitable. Paying your six 'Mech jocks, your PR campaign, your contribution to the Donovan and Eva Charity Drive, housekeeping, and many other expenses are all adding up quickly. The Storm estate can't keep this up much longer. The numbers don't look good."
"The fucking numbers." Mac sighed and ran his hands through his messy mop of dark hair, then ran those hands across his face. "Didn't we already cut back on the jocks' pay a bit and fire the extra gardeners and kitchen staff? Beats me why the hell I hired them in the first place..."
Holly nodded. "We're running a skeleton crew in most departments, Mr. Storm, but even then..."
"But even then, I'm getting thrashed out there. Right." Mac slammed a fist sideways into the wall. No one jumped.
Everyone knew what Mac meant by "out there": the rest of Solaris City, the steel jungle of predatory adults and their greedy lies. Mac was wearing himself and his estate to the bone trying to fight back, trying to light a torch in the thick darkness. Nothing was working.
"Perhaps, Mr. Storm, cutting your stable down to four jocks -" Holly started.
"No! I've got the ideal team," Mac insisted. "I'm tellin' you, Holly, I've got my six jocks fighting in all the best circuits that draw the most attention to my stable and my brand. They're my best marketing tools! Didn't you mention last month that cutting any of them would result in a net loss based on that? Didn't you?"
Holly looked down. "I did, Mr. Storm."
"Yeah, you did. Don't get rid of my best stuff, Holly. Get me a solution." Mac performed yet another tour of his mansion, which he did at least once a week, to check in on all his departments. Zeke Lombardi, the head chef, was doing just fine in the kitchen despite the minimal staff, but Brent Flernsrech, the chief of cybersecurity, wasn't feeling so hot about the state of affairs.
"We've gotten another hacking attempt, Mr. Storm," Brent told Mac grimly, once the adolescent family head stepped into the IT department's office in the south wing. "My boys and I are staying on top of it, but our firewalls are at least a year and a half old. The new models are kinda pricy, and they're starting to crack."
"According to Holly, I'd have to sell a kidney from everyone on staff to pay for the latest software for you," Mac mentioned. "If all this keeps up, Brent, I won't have any money to protect after you get your new firewalls."
Brent shook his head. "I'm doing what I can, Mr. Storm. But your defenses are wearing awfully thin. You've got plenty of enemies out there."
That phrase again: out there. Mac was always thinking about out there, but he never really went there, did he?
"Charity balls, speeches in upscale auditoriums, schmoozing with the elite and their loaded cash," Mac muttered. "Either you're honest and broke, or your money is stained with your corruption and ego."
"I can't comment on that, Mr. Storm," Brent said helplessly.
Mac grunted. "Just keep doing what you're doing. I need to... go somewhere." He didn't say where, because he didn't know. Instead, Mac wandered into his second bedroom and considered himself before the mirror. Hmmmmm, yes, he was a dashing 16-year-old, a fine young man, with sharp eyes and a firm jaw and broad shoulders to match. He also scowled at his jacket, then stormed right into his vast wardrobe and started yanking things off the hangars and out of shoe cubbies at random.
A small pile of unwanted clothes and accessories built up on the plush carpet as Mac customized his appearance before the full-length mirror, until he finally settled on his attire: black Eldrani-brand, high thread count pants, equally dark shoes, a deep red button-up shirt, a black leather blazer (he kept it parted), and a Jace & Lilli brand-name wallet with six pockets. Not to mention a pistol in his holster, hidden under the jacket.
Mac did a couple of tough-guy poses before the mirror to make sure that all this came together, including practicing reaching for his pistol of anything went wrong. Mac nodded to himself, satisfied that he looked well-off but street-wise at the same time. Lieutenant Jashta had commented more than once that Mac had certainly inherited Eva Storm's passion and care for high fashion, and Mac couldn't bring himself to argue. If you're gonna get shot in some back alley, why not look good while you're hitting the pavement?
Mac called up Lieutenant Jashta and two security guards to escort him to the idling blue Porsche on the front driveway, and Mac got comfortable and folded his arms in the back seat as the car smoothly drove to the estate's front gates.
"Where to, Mr. Storm?" the driver asked.
"Where I've never gone before," Mac said cryptically. "Pay close attention to these directions..."
*o*o*o*o*
Heaven Beside You Club, International Zone
Mac knew who exactly who he was dealing with here. Well, mostly, and by reputation only. Kind of. All right, Mac was the underdog here! But did he have a choice? He didn't think so.
"I've heard stories about this place, Mr. Storm," Lieutenant Jashta said as he and two of his men climbed out of the Porsche and escorted Mac to the huge club's front doors. "None of them promising."
Mac made a noncommittal noise. "I already know about their rule on guns. I can bring one, because theirs are bigger."
"Yes, Mr. Storm."
Mac glanced at his foster father. "You think I'm making a mistake."
"I-I don't, Mr. Storm."
"Admit it."
"I'm... apprehensive, Mr. Storm."
"Well, so am I. Just do what I say while we're in there." Mac tilted his chin up a bit and slicked his hands through his messy dark hair, hoping he'd come off as punkish but smart, especially with this outfit to back it all up. Maybe he could have used a bit of hair gel? No, no...
Two burly security guards in dark suits, who stood beside the club's front doors, stepped forward. "Body search," one of them grunted. "One sidearm per guest. Nothing more."
Mac stood in place, arms held out like a T as he let the two guards pat him down. The two men confirmed the location of Mac's pistol, then satisfied themselves that Mac hadn't brought any explosives or other weapons on his person. Lieutenant Jashta and the other two guards also passed the test, and so Mac was welcomed into Heaven Beside You, the most hip nightclub on this side of the Solaris River.
The sunny afternoon vanished inside the nightclub, replaced with moody, sexy lighting in violet and magenta hues. It was still daytime, so the expansive dance floor was empty, but well-dressed men and women were seated here and there in the booths, chatting over drinks, cigars, and lines of coke. Y'know, typical underworld stuff like that. At least the potted palm trees looked nice.
"This way, kid," one of the club guards said, leading Mac's four-man party across Heaven Beside You's main lounge and up a flight of stairs to the second floor, and down a short hallway. Mac found himself in a VIP room, where a short, clever-looking fellow sat on a plush couch alone. He was already hunched forward, fingers interlaced under his chin, a knowing look in his eyes.
"Oh yes, young Mac Storm," the man said. He motioned to the guards, who shut the door and assumed their positions in the corners.
Mac sat on a couch opposite the man's, his mind whirling with possibilities. This was it, the first big step to make Mac's dreams and ambitions a reality. He couldn't screw this up.
"You may call me Mr. Omar," the man said smoothly. "I am a trusted lieutenant of the boss, Mr. William F. Don't ask about the last name."
Mac nodded. "Well met, Mr. Omar."
"Now..." Mr. Omar's curious eyes latched right onto Mac. "What are you willing to lose, Mr. Storm?"
Mac blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Come now. Don't tell me you're naive enough to think that you can consort with the Bertolis without risking something precious!" Mr. Omar said, his tone becoming sharp. "If you are an ignorant fool, Mr. Storm, or unprepared for the reality of crime life, I'll fucking shoot you right now and spare you the agony of your weakness." He drew a shiny pistol from under his white suit jacket. The rings on his hand glittered.
Mac already had his hands on his own pistol when he caught himself. This was a test. Yeah, to evaluate Mac's nerves and resolve! Mac willed his racing heart to slow down as he removed his hand from his firearm, waiting for Mr. Omar to put away his own weapon. Mr. Omar didn't oblige him.
"The way things are going now, I'll slowly but surely lose everything," Mac said cautiously. "I'd rather gamble with what I have now, and aim for the top. I don't have the patience to try things the slow but steady way."
Mr. Omar kept his eyes on Mac, his pistol frozen in place. "All or nothing, Mr. Storm?"
Mac nodded.
Mr. Omar holstered his weapon and cracked a small smile. "A fine enough answer for now, Mr. Storm. Good; we seize what we must in this world! You've got guts, kid."
"My 'Mech stable is slowly leaking cash," Mac added. "I can't find a solution among my employees. I need something new. That's why I came to the Bertolis for a business partnership. Surely we can work something out?"
Mr. Omar motioned with his hand. "Dismiss all your 'Mech jocks and sell their 'Mechs."
Mac failed to hide his shock. "You want me to shut down my stable?"
"You're already questioning me?" Mr. Omar barked. "You want to get ahead in Solaris City's criminal underworld, you wipe the slate clean and learn a new set of rules, a new perspective on the world! Bring no baggage with you, Mac Storm! I tell you to dismiss your fucking 'Mech jocks, you do it!"
Mac tried to do some quick mental calculations. The numbers didn't look good. "So, I dismiss all my jocks and sell off their machines. I presume I'll get a new source of cash flow right away?"
"Of course you will," Mr. Omar said with a huff. "You think this is a game, Mac Storm? I am not here to ruin the Thunder Blast stable for no good reason. In fact, you approached us Bertolis at an opportune time. We have lost some men and partners, leaving gaps in our operations. The Storm family estate can fill in those gaps nicely."
Mac had already known that, and he was at least half sure that Mr. Omar did, too. But he didn't bring it up. "I'm ready to capitalize on the situation," he said.
"I am sure you think so," Mr. Omar said dismissively. "But you are a boy of sixteen, Mr. Storm. Have you ever ordered someone's execution and watch them die? Have you ever broken a man and watched him moan and crawl on the ground, his life shattered? Have you ever taken innocent lives to protect the flow of drugs and weapons in and out of this city's ports? The Bertolis leave no witnesses, you see."
Mac licked his lips. Should he tell Mr. Omar that he had personally ordered his parents' executions, right there in Donovan's office? Maybe he could save that for later, for serious shock value if he was truly backed into a corner. For now... "I am confident that I can survive and even thrive in that environment," Mac told Mr. Omar. "I have a stronger stomach than most people my age."
Mr. Omar gave him that appraising look again. "I... see. After some trial runs, we will see if you're telling the truth!"
"You won't be disappointed."
"Mmmmmm." Mr. Omar leaned back on the couch. "Tell me something, Mac Storm. Have you ever paid for Jester's services? Or, heaven forbid, had Jester's services used against you?"
Mac felt a chill. "No, Mr. Omar. My mother and father never consorted with Jester, either."
Mr. Omar raised his eyebrows. "No? I find that unlikely, Mac Storm. More likely, old Donovan did make use of Jester but hid that fact from you."
Jester. Solaris City's #1 information broker, deal broker and hacker. No one knew Jester's name, age, identity, or even whether it was one person or an entire team of people. Jester charged serious cash for their services, and in exchange, you were sure to find and destroy your enemies with Jester's unmatched capabilities and intel. But Jester also made sure that no one got too close to them and used them as a permanent minion. Jester would help anyone and destroy anyone, always wild and free.
Always deadly, and always available, too.
"I am not unwilling to consider making use of Jester's services," Mac said, really just telling Mr. Omar what he wanted to hear. Mac wasn't afraid of Jester, but he was afraid what his recent bank statements had shown.
Mr. Omar gave him an appraising look. "We will see about that too, Mr. Storm."
Mac didn't feel quite as confident about this as he had planned, but what could he do? He hammered out some preliminary details with Mr. Omar about his partnership with the Bertoli family, and how the Bertolis would decide when and how the Thunder Blast stable would re-open. Mac had no particular love for his current 'Mech jocks, but damn, it felt strange just tossing them onto the street on Mr. Omar's orders. And Mac didn't even try to figure out how Henry Laxus and Xavier Chidori would factor into this. Would they be friend or foe? Or just laugh at him?
"... so, this area here will be your jurisdiction. Here in Montenegro, and these neighborhoods in Silesia. Not to mention this stretch of the Solaris River," Mr. Omar finally said, tracing his finger along a paper map of the city. He tapped it a few times for emphasis. "Drugs, hacker modules, high-grade weapons, and prostitutes flow well in these areas, meaning we're counting on you to handle this correctly. Screw it up, and you can guess how we'll punish you." His hand motioned toward the pistol holstered under his suit jacket.
Mac gave Mr. Omar's hand a wary look. "I won't let it come to that. I have the business sense and street smarts to get it done. I've run up and down every street in the city; I can revisit them for a new purpose without trouble."
Mr. Omar cracked a mocking smile. "Oh yes, I've heard about this from your father. Your gang of delinquent children? Stealing from convenience stores and warehouses, delivering medicine and food packets to the needy? How charitable of you."
Mac felt a chill. What the hell? Donovan had told the Bertolis about the Mac's Hooligans gang? What, did that bastard just enjoy embarrassing his son? Well, it didn't matter now. Did it?
"I'll do more than smuggle Tylenol and mac and cheese packets, I promise you that," Mac told Mr. Omar, rapidly going through more calculations. If Mr. Omar knew about Mac's Hooligans and Mac's personality, would he use this to manipulate Mac somehow? More and more strings were being attached to this deal by the minute, and Mac was already a little queasy about the idea of running serious smuggling operations and protection rackets in the city that he wanted to save. But what choice did he have? None.
"Very good, boy. I'll have you introduced to Gisella Vernetti, your new mentor," Mr. Omar told him. "You'll need your hand held, Mac Storm, and Gisella will report back to the boss and me on your progress. I'm sure you'll understand our need to monitor our new... investment."
"Of course."
Mac knew that he was on a tightrope, and there was more at stake than he could count. His pride, his personal code of ethics, his role as the head of the Storm estate, his role as the boss of Mac's Hooligans, his position as owner of the Thunder Blast stable... and his gig as a drug and gun runner for the Bertoli crime family. Mac wore many hats now, and those hats didn't all like each other.
For once, Mac wanted his father around, so he could ask the old man for advice. Almost. What would Donovan say about all this...?