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"Among the grandest years I'd ever live, and I repay 'em like that… Why deserve a damn thing anymore?"
Standing at the riverbank, he'd again feel the stabs of sorry memories in his head, how they'd crash and roar about in contrast to waters beneath. That life and this one to begin with a quick musical pause; to be without guidance nor perspective, no crueller scenario to create for himself.
Seemingly an age of staring until he'd hear a callout, took off down the street hoping to avoid any further probes. Just as well he didn't dare to mimic the morning sprint, for just two blocks away he'd be squatting for breath, wondering whether he deserved the Admiral's dirty deed after all.
Worlds to burn over bus rides and stair climbs—better yet, a mystery beam to project itself on the walls after turning his key. Focused sunbeam or laser sight for sure, and theories on who he pissed off enough to earn either, before Morbo came live and doused any proper plans in an instant.
"DON'T YOU DARE MOVE, PUNY EARTHLING! Join us, won't you, as Morbo brings you his one-on-one interview, a galaxy exclusive, with one of your Milky Way's greatest conservationists."
Quick buzz of static heard before title cards of 'Tea with Titans', catching the inside of a hunter's cabin, where he'd observe chairs, tables, teapots, and even cookie-loaded plates, made luxurious with ornate, gold-lined designs. That green one to utterly dwarf his guest, who himself made Hermes look slimmer than a streetlight.
"Oh hello, Morbo here sipping this delightful English Breakfast—"Used to be"—by special invite, inside this incredible set. THANKS FOR JOINING US, SIR ARCHBURY!"
"Greetings Morbo, great pleasure to be had," he'd hear the reply. "But please, do call me Reginald."
Crook of his spine to cringe inward; envies over great moustaches and gentlemanly suits aside, he couldn't help but be reminded of ancient Senators or Premiers, for hearing that accent.
"Saints alive, if only I had a car… Could use his mouth to fuel up."
"So Reginald, riddle me this. Going by your public financial records"—glasses brought out—"you've taken in hundreds of millions of dollars, donating most to several causes bearing your name, yet evidence of positive ecological impacts remain slim. Why do you believe that is?"
"Sadly, I'm but one man against millions; they to forget the follies of GGB2052, any of its preventable lead-ups, or indeed its near-disastrous return to my beloved city. Morbo, our dear Mother Earth is long due to dish out her direst cure against us, against our collective and viral free will… And if neither my genius nor great big cheques can inhibit it, that's just a matter of when."
"Bet he heads a fertiliser factory or two, guy's so full of sh—"
"Your saying so seems to contradict, however, that far from forgetting or not caring, New New York has been garbage-free for over 500 years, even for that one episode early this century. Why insist, then, that such doomsday threats are imminent? And what plans would require such galactic funding?"
"Goodness gracious me, why are these grand cookies going to waste? By all means, let's have some."
Archbury to grab a handful, Morbo to devour the rest AND the plate, as the former measured his words.
"Concerning the citizens, I'll admit to a certain alarmism; that we'd rise to become leaders of a cleaner future, can't deny our extraordinary efforts. That said, the seeds of old, filthy societies do exist, can still corrupt us—while certain anomalies do us great services today, there are others who DON'T inspire that same confidence…"
A scratch of temples over 'anomalies' and any connection therein, before Reginald was asked about anything coming up.
"Does an ursine defecate in the forest? One month from now, at none other than the Metropolitan, I'll be hosting my annual Audience with Archbury gala—all esteemed guests will enjoy quality time, my guarantee, among the alphas from all across the Milky Way. But as always, I sell out fast, so be buying or be crying."
Was about to flip his fingers, but couldn't go through before curiosities began to pique; heating up old takeout, he'd soon be thinking of the who's who of famous faces, thinking of the host's history to explore, and thinking of the speakers, refreshments, and entertainment that'd attract such a crowd.
"No harm done to query the quality time, surely… Be damned if there's nothin' worth digging up."
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"They're Netsuits, to end your nosing about. And ENOUGH about the smell, swear you're such a drama queen over some rhesus monkeys."
Early mornings and rainy rides to kick off a search for answers, one that'd lead to company property and its corpse-like stench; cybernetic helmets, gloves and boots ripped off from 80s sci-fi films. Big boss's attention to attract, after making his suffocating muffles known.
"Better be worth the trouble of killing a bloody zoo, never mind the monkeys."
"Absolutely they are. These are for grand-scale Internet access; great for cheap downtime, for all the orders out there to seize."
"Huh, and to think all I needed was a box yay big, called 'em modems y'know. No dead animals needed either."
"Ohh, you and your quaint ancient lives… How 'bout I set you up, sweet child, so you can tell me which you prefer?"
"Well I'd appreciate it, if anything. Got a thing or three to get myself up-to-date on."
The two to tangle with thick cords, he to spit curses in silence, until they finally logged him in and began the process of connection. One button to soon encompass him in blue orbs of light, convert his bag of fat and facial fuzz into some kind of fuzzy green avatar.
Before long, with 'dust' swirling over his feet, he'd be looking upon a gigantic digital world standing on some gorge. High hopes had until he'd confront the dozens of tabs to flap casual above his head; left him royally pissed off to feature escorts, pills, pumps, and other such paraphernalia.
"Quaint and ancient, am I? Ad-blockers were free in MY time, Gods-dammit!"
Visage of the Professor to pop in: "Language, Mayfield. And I'm sorry, but all those were outlawed in 2247; obscure First Amendment clause to create such a ruling, so I heard."
Not the news he needed to hear, as those would-be warplanes met him with dive-bombs, squawking and fighting for the privileges of bleeding his eyes, perhaps even his wallet.
"Sons-of, dumb little, mother-fu—Knew I should've stomped that damned gun at the shops."
Eternities of slapping crosses, seemingly, 'till he'd destroy enough ads to escape the dogpile; that moment to launch off the cliff and take flight towards that rendered city. Wickedest of worlds upon landing, whistle drawn out for the adult chat rooms, good-time games, and sensual promised lands unto his eyes.
"Avenue Q, of all humanity, to become our sagest prophets… Hell, look what DuckDuckGo became with a letter change or two; search site for affairs now."
Indeed false loves to try and tempt him offside, but wished instead for a place to search; fortress-like structure, similar to choice hangouts, to generate and fizzle in while flying about. Had to believe so, for landing and overhearing how any obscure subject, in milliseconds, could produce millions of results with almost no thought required.
Powers beyond orders of magnitude; could've wasted ages staring from the perpetual stretch of terminals both sides, to that monolithic network of clear tubing above each. An Earth's worth of websites made virtually physical—lucky whispers of skipping breakfast as he found a free seat, stretched his knuckles, and got to typing.
Acronym search to return ancient wrestling companies, even artistic conventions at first, until he found that gala lurking near the page's bottom. Next to no warning given for sucking him up with a holler; loop-de-loops, long straights and lightspeed to leave him in rather a daze, especially for crashing hard.
Maybe why he tried clearing cobwebs at first, to consider this new world formed from every king's ransom and fabled myth of legend. El Dorado good as resurrected, only with American-made skyscrapers over Aztecan pyramids.
"Hoooooooly… Did it rain palaces down here? And I thought that Mom maniac was made of money."
Toughest choice alone to determine where, within the guy's Mancave of Wonders, he'd housed any gala knowledge of his; nothing of note committed to memory, before arrows led him toward the tidbits he came after. Prices first and foremost, where he'd draw only one obvious, immediate conclusion.
"Five figures for general entry? A quarter-mill for VIPs, MINIMUM? If that's how Reggie hopes to help any charities of choice, he's gotta be more hopping mad than a kangaroo on steroids."
Harsh judgement however as he'd explore and be led about—any appeal to become clearer, and decisively so. Guests to get samplings of premium alcohols and nibbles, private time with pedigreed heads, and these'd just be appetisers. Once he heard of creatures being brought back from extinction, as part of culminations, the gala became quite the jewel to imbue in any city's crown.
"Ain't any gathering for a goof who gives parcels, fair dinkum… And I'm quite okay with that."
"Yo, Thomas, you know what the time is?"
Captain's head to rip off his suit in a panic, pelt him through HQ; already nine o'clock by the time he reached his locker. Emergency cream to lather up and leap into roll call; only last names to avoid marks against him, before Mr. Conrad called for silence and cleared his throat.
"Alright people, a quick word before we begin the day… Received this, real early this morning."
Photocopies handed 'round the table, and to notice the rants within, a growing rage to mix with regret. This rambling to surely scorch the earth under Planet Express, for its supposed spread across the universe, among hundreds of millions of beings.
"So, anyone care to explain? Anyone at all?"
Concern over the eyes of Captain and crewmates, but as the silence grew further, he'd experience a familiar feeling, daresay an epiphany. Had shied away from social media, but wasn't a total hermit; as details of Twitcher, of any predecessors, struck out, he began to burst into fits of chuckles.
"What 'de hell's so funny, idiot?"
"Conrad, mate, surely you can't be serious? For such a meticulous mind, you can't spot the fakes?"
"I've better tings to 'tink about, than being an influencer! Now what are yuh talkin' bout?"
"Of course, and I apologise. I'm just amazed that for all the forms you do, you can't tell apart ink from font."
"And your point is?"
"Guy's a nobody who still imagines he's somebody, simple as that… Just file 'em under S for screw 'em, so we can get on with—"
"Dat's not a thing we say about customers, I don't care who he was! I'd suggest yuh smarten up, Mayfield, else I'll—"
A point had on any other occasion, but here in particular, could only throw up hands and leave. For rarely seeing the man outside his office, never mind being on board, it was clear he would never understand the contempt, clear that only crew could truly be trusted.
Better than anyone, they to understand the dangers of delivery, the craziness of being spaceship couriers.
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"Amy, you've got my seat. Thomas, I'd like a word."
Heading straight for Mess Hall, and getting an expectant eye for each hesitation, he had to wonder why HQ's backlog was taking this back seat. Nothing to discuss that he hadn't already—nor wanted to—and was sure he didn't create a scene that'd merit any.
"Captain, could we please forget all this? I-I never meant to—"
Finger over his lips, then he to arc up as the air got squeezed from his lungs; would only soften to remember the balcony embraces, now paid in kind. Got those with pride in better times, and sometimes, whenever he questioned the worth of living.
"Listen, I'm real sorry things got so carried away, that it became so personal… Had me worried to watch you storm off."
"Ahhh, can't fault ya really. Candid chats should've been obvious, besides, seemed apt that the devil'd talk after I spoke of angels… Became the head to my heart, for losing them and being cast out."
"And to keep him quiet, you'd turn to drink?"
"Please Cap, drinks were part of life, for the Celtic blood in me. But when gold and silver days got corrupted, then good days grew absent, they consumed my life, defined it too."
"Care to enlighten me?"
"Used to picture that kid giggling to sleep, over wicked stories on sketch toys. Used to picture the box screens and backyards, our games that'd grow wilder with every play. Used to picture those beautiful meals, home-cooked or had out, our giving cheers to health, fortune and happiness. Now each time I close my eyes, all I dream of is that night, that stupid choice of mine."
"Oh you can't blame yourself so much, especially to not expect any visitors—hell, invasions—at all."
"Nevertheless, I can't commit to anything when I've SO much crap to clean up. They're all my burdens to bear, before anything else, and that's the bottom line."
Thoughts had about the years that might've been, returning to stars rushing past, until a sudden burst energised his mind. Flash of memory from last night, and one he might've made mention of, before Hermes minced his arse to pieces.
"Say, you end up catching that 'Tea with Titans' segment last night?"
"Heard whispers on the street and in coffee lines, what about it?"
"Real two-tonne, tree-huggin' sort, gabbing on 'bout free will, follies, faults of society and disasters in waiting. Swear, even a mouthful of marbles and wet cement wouldn't have shut him up… The name Archbury ring a bell, by any chance?"
"Oh yeah, of course it does! In fact, given all his awareness campaigns and actual efforts for our environment, could even call me a fan. So, he's s'posed to be in town now?"
"Will be next month, so he says. Thought I'd ask, what's the deal with that gig of his, hosting at some Metropolitan or—"
Chorus of snorts and laughs to stop him cold; thankful prayers that Amy had been given the wheel.
"Buddy, when one hosts at the finest arts centre on Earth, you can bet your life that we're off the guest list. Still, thanks, best laugh I'll have all week."
"Seen better back home, and also seen enough to say that he can go to hell, his audience too."
Co-pilot's callout for both to scamper to bridge; imminent approach to Spectrus-19 for the Captain to claim Bessie back. Any other job to be SSD'd, of dozens still to clear, and then their destination would roar right into view.
"Well stick a gold bracelet over shit, and make it a saint… Ohhhh my."
Child within to imagine a Skittles supernova, such a starburst to knock his knees and skyrocket his heartrate. Rueful for having nothing to record it, he'd try his damnedest to drag things out, delay further deliveries—no concern needed for Bessie's audible crackling, after all. Matter of fact, when his Captain cream and all hurried him inside, hustled through the job, he'd actually begin to object.
Any protests to quickly prove short-lived, though, when he'd be felled by a whirling unease, a sudden purge erupting from both ends. Couldn't scream, just widen his eyes, as every system ground to complete halts; lucky man to be on bridge as the ladies activated Bessie's AI, and hauled arses to help him to Med-Bay.
A series of IV solutions inserted under his wrist, soon the bonds to begin and the particles to start passing through his systems. Eventually, a certain death to again return from, yet as the lethal fallout and treatment reared both their hideous heads, he could only mumble for sweet release.
Dead tired, beyond disgusting, too sick to eat and starving mad… Least of his problems in that laundry list, to earn a very stern eye.
"Don't complain to us, idiot, you brought all that on yourself. Now listen up, all that poison's gotta pass first, otherwise any miracles we apply will just get eaten away. Think on that, while we decontaminate before delivering again."
Rest of the shift to regret his choice; every second like a minute, every minute stretching to hours, as he'd create a vow, focus, and make a mantra of it… Enough finding out consequences for fucking around, end of discussion.
When he'd finally be cleared with a cream rub, and when the trio finally ended their day, he'd almost rip through the ship trying to escape. Made Maggi noodles look like molasses, between arriving and leaving—showers, setting up, burning clothes to cinders, and streaking out of HQ sight unseen; just didn't want to answer to anyone, after this particular episode.
Arriving back at his pad, there'd be some gossip rags on his doorstep; about to make mulch of them, but for the curious peeks at editor notes. Regarding candid shots, seemed that Archbury had achieved an uncanny knack of secrecy despite his status as a 'prized target'; world of questions for that beyond impressive feat.
"Dude's his own anomaly, damn sure certain of that, to so avoid such masters of hiding… Oughta learn a thing or two, if ever I get famous."
Didn't know how they got mailed here, especially for finding his Captain as their subscriber. And between their first cab and his library card, he knew he had causes for worry now.
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Come Friday, even for hours spent combing that city of gold, he'd still be clueless about anything related to this Archbury.
No origins nor beginnings, no regaling of exploits at length, and no legacies of what came in between; sure was a surprise after that interview, those impressions given. In addition, couldn't help but count up the big man's busts, all in gold and marble—dozens to really strike him as suspect.
"Sure got tickets on yerself, for all yer preachin' to everybody. So why so eager to bury your stories, then?"
Having spotted mystery visitors for exploring however, he became unsure of being back to better understand; in the end, decided to dust his hands and get to activities of actual worth. With his Symphod to hover beside, and a mop, squeegee and instant soap bucket by his feet, figured he'd spend some quality alone time with Bessie, give her the shine she deserved for keeping him safe.
Working the windows and fortified shell, would try to compose himself—not just with hand conductors—to collections timeless; vinyl records, cassette tapes, CD albums, live concerts, soundtracks, and even YouTube rips. Happier times to get hooked on classics, to thunder along to his heritage, to experience worlds of euphoria through Sennheisers or Sonys.
Such frequencies now lost, perhaps forever, to be denied forgiveness and deservedly exiled by the last link he had left. For the world's greatest Mum, tireless in her pursuit of a proud home, drawls of "Thank you, thank you very much" in imitation of her favourite. And finally, over memories of Australian radio, would shed a tear for the special drives—ones where Mayfields senior and junior could indulge.
"Despite the things I'd give now, there's no taking it back… Here's to this idiot's tale, and cleaning its mess."
"Yo, Thomas!"
Sudden whistle to stagger back and almost overboard; hand over chest and heart in his throat, he soon found the Captain, casually leant over the rail and smiling.
"Dear Gods, ya scared the PISS outta me!"
"So here's where you've been, huh? Why all the overtimes, and hell, early starts of late? You sure you're alright?"
"Chance to reminisce on smooth golden magic, otherwise, had been hoping to learn about Archbury's story. Keeps a lot to himself, but damn sure dunno why… Anyway, what can I do ya for?"
"Well, usually I'd have evening plans, but none wanted in tonight."
"Not even Zoidberg?" he'd grin.
"Watch it, wise-guy. Anyway, I figured after your invite that maybe, I don't know…"
"You'd more or less throw us a quick little get-together?"
"The offer's there, if you wanna take it."
"Ehhh, why not? Bessie's clean can wait. I'll just go freshen up first, alright?"
All throughout he'd tell himself that, after redoubled efforts to deliver their backlog—most of it—they deserved a simple drink and casual chat, this evening frolic of a sort.
Maybe the best ending he'd any chance of having… Going out on good terms, having good times.
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Portholed shipwreck of peeling green walls, stained burgundy rugs and creaky oak stairs… Still her own tiny slice of paradise, against everything before, and in spite of anything after.
Few miles of pounding pavement to come back to Cookieville-lite; late night when she'd scan her index, and invite Thomas and herself in. Caught his widening grin for seeing her TV, and its sudden drop for noticing the solitary armchair, blank-white walls, and lonely doorframe out her lounge.
"Fair dinkum lady, for all the money you must've made, you choose to return here? S'pose it's erm, cosy and all, but—"
"Apart from me being used to having nothing, how would YOU spend any sudden windfalls, hmm?"
For an answer that never came, unless one counted stutters, stupefied blinks, and beaten shrugs as such, gave a little scoff."
"Exactly. Though I had been thinking of a couple plants, perhaps a new window… What do you think?"
"Little green wouldn't go astray. Swear I feel like I'm missing a straitjacket, just standing here."
"Oh please, you've been in here what, twelve seconds? Try twelve MONTHS alone, then we'll talk. Speaking of which, go straight through, take the last right, then right again."
Directions to lead them to her bedroom; looking outside her lone window, glimpses of that hysterical child beneath, and her gruesome choice to go ahead on. Nowadays, a grateful whisper to give proper chances, despite initial, once-endless regrets.
"Never thought I'd actually be inside, looking out… But, I guess we're not here just to remember such fateful nights, huh?"
"Guilty as charged, but it's been something I've needed off my shoulders. Bed's yours."
Hand to fish through her bedside table, hearing knees slapped with odd rhythms before she heaved out her photo album. 'Happy Memories' that no-one—not even at HQ—had prior knowledge of; secrets she hoped would remain so as she flicked to the very last page.
"Literally from birth, this letter would convince Warden Vogel of my alien roots, place me under the state's care. Still can't crack that damned code, and worse yet, never got any clue on who originally wrote it."
"Puh, taking a look, I doubt even Baker Street's finest could figure it out… DNA sequences, scissors on LSD, lightning zaps, and broadcast towers? Where can I sample the good stuff that went into creating these symbols?"
"Hey, this letter's real personal to me, so watch your mouth please."
His quick apologies before she'd move backwards in time, first photos to recall of those older orphans cradling her, moments before judgement. Mere months old when they'd seat her among rusted robot parts and busted TVs, snapped photos with a stolen camera, then ran giggling for their lives.
'Abandoned Property', can you imagine? Don't know how long I'd cry before Warden found me, starving and covered in my filth. Yet looking back, I kept wishing that'd been the worst of it."
Elementary age among her next shots; thick eyeglass and braces outside the Orphanarium, where two other children would point and jeer out of a first-floor window.
"Warden's photo to present our case for funding; for living there, sure you can imagine why. Smile of mine to be forced, under threats of blame for our Mayor cutting back again… Food and lodging first to go, as if we ever had enough."
Next, her 'special treat' of senior prom, fancy-ish attire and all, for becoming one of few to survive to graduation. Should've been her greatest triumph to that point, one's hand in hers as a bonus, except every grudge—by then petty—would descend as one into the cruellest crescendo she'd know.
"Once I earned my black belt those orphans, original or otherwise, would choose to trash me behind my back. Same childish insults I'd trade broken noses for, or so I believed… That taped 'X' you see? Beginnings of my ungraceful exit, when I'd be drenched hair to heel in greasy soup broth."
Stopped speaking to find her Officer's cheeks flush a molten red, veins protruding out his neck, the way he'd clench his jaw. Might've cracked his own teeth, if she hadn't motioned to calm down.
"Swear to the Gods, if I ever find those snot-nosed little shits, I'll—"
"Ehhh, wouldn't bother really. That I remember from our reunion, most of 'em are now stuck fighting the shakes, selling their own body to survive. Much as I sometimes hear my wails or their mocking farewells, I struggle to desire anything against them, anymore."
That to really cool off tempers, along with showing him her best for last, the actual happy memories.
In front of ochre-red studio walls, wrapped tight in one arm, her head nestled on Fry's shoulder. Riding the Mecha-Hexadecapus, wild flails and screams aplenty—his tight grips to her too. Monument Beach to stroll hand-in-hand over sand and sea, sometimes goof off among, much to Mayfield's shock, wonders of his old world. And then there'd be the laydowns and chin-cradled grins by Bessie's side, whispers of 'overtime' to shiver him.
"Do you understand, Thomas? Throughout my adventures, my entire life, THAT was the love I always craved. And like an absolute idiot, I'd take most of his for granted. Every high, every low, and every day, he was my shoulder to lean on… Then the day came when I couldn't, courtesy of the Rat King."
"Even for having my own, yours is a heartache I'd wish on no-one. Deserve so much better."
Appreciative rub of knee to think about closing her book, end this journey right there, until a page slipped just enough for costumes to catch his eyes. Once he slipped a finger in between, almost had the album snatched out of her hands, she resigned herself to reliving that little side hustle.
"Whoa, wow…"
Better days of beating crime to admit to; never got old leaping confidently into action—sometimes for serious commercial dollars. Same said for the fancy footwork that left any fiends out cold, as well as having the collar of such crooks in hand, posing for the press on nonchalant sides.
"Hottest caped crusader of the city… Among the only ones, to tell the truth, and gotta wonder why."
Wry smile to remember Rat King insisting on pictures, even against calls to crimes in progress, which'd give way to giggles for seeing Thomas grow rather bored. Fun and games to be short-lived, though, as her collection hit the carpet, and he'd grip his neck breathing in a panic.
"What, what is it kid?"
"Chriost dean trocaire, it can't be…" Eyes out his head like golf balls: "Y-y-you don't see it?"
"See what? Out with it, would ya?"
"That night in New Jersey, when the Admiral paid a visit? Swear on my name, if this ain't their hairdo, I'll—"
"Are you friggin' kidding me? For God's sake, I never got to bury the body."
"I'm sorry, I really am, but who else do you know that wears that style? I know I can't forget, for that cold hand over my throat."
"All this time I'd hang my cape"—she'd clutch the air—"and of all things to be pulled back in… Just get out, it's getting late."
"You don't think it's—"
"I said GET OUT!"
Rush of aching and anger to scurry him to those windy streets, before she'd crack open a beer, kick off her boots, and settle herself in for some TV instead.
"How would that insensitive idiot like it, to be told his family's alive? When he knows the truth, as I do for Fry?"
Spirits still bitter when she went to bed soon after, especially to admit to challenges of old convictions. Between deifying her, sprinkles of Arcturan Kung Fu, and declarations of being back, the impossible would invade her head regarding that stranger.
"Never buried the body, but couldn't go back to confirm either. And for all to happen since… Could it be?"
Seeds of hope in some form, as she'd drift off to sleep and dream of reunion, unaware of observations given and orders relayed.