Chapter IX: Progressive action.
A brand new day has dawned upon the L.A. skyline. Worker bees swarm the streets vigorously, painfully driving their vehicles towards the means to their hollow ends. A black-colored limousine marches the streets along with the lines of the millions of denizens, yet its purpose and direction differs, and in many ways mocks, the rest. Inside lies the means towards their ends. A modern king. A ruler of a shameless and sinful empire tainted by the blood-stained claws of lust, desire and power.
The cars inch towards their goal. Each fighting an endless army that refuses to give passage to every single other vehicle that dares cross its path. It's a test of virtue. Of irrefutable patience. A war of the mind. Brought to a battlefield of stone and smoke. Met by over-caffeinated soccer moms, students craving rest and irritable middle-aged men with dead-end jobs, all striving to be first at the non-existent finish-line. Perhaps out of a powerful desire for control over circumstance. Or maybe it's just desperation.
Nobody really knows. They just go through the motions every single day without hesitation. Only that nagging feeling of self-loathe and the knowledge that it'll be worse in the afternoon.
Wesley sighs as he looks out of the window. He knows that they're close to their finish line, yet by remaining inside the limousine it feels all the more farther away.
"Told you we should have teleported there," callously points out Hamilton as he files away his nails.
"Has anybody ever told you how appallingly annoying it is to hear someone point out the obvious?" asks Wesley.
"Of course. Though, truth be told, none of them actually lived much longer afterwards."
"If I say that I don't find that surprising, would that satisfy your ego?"
Hamilton chuckles. "You flatter me, sir."
As the minutes crawl through the face of time at an unspeakably slow pace, they arrive at their destination. An entire city block is closed with police lines and an ever-growing mass of intrigued citizens floods the pavement. They look at each other with a glint of impatience in their glance as the vehicle comes to a halt, then proceed to face the metaphorical music as the driver of the limousine comes around to pry it open for them.
The sun shines brightly as Wesley steps off the vehicle. He takes a few moments by the door as his eyes adjust to the decreasingly painful light. He turns towards the driver and smiles with a slight nod of gratification and proceeds towards the rampant crowd of reporters as flashes of white light bathe his face.
They push through the gathered crowds as police officers pass out masks to the people. They step into the lobby of the building and walk past the reception desk towards the elevators in the back. They wait for a few moments staring helplessly at the raving audience outside, then step into the elevator with exasperation as it arrives. Hamilton leans over the panel and presses the button for the roof.
"Are you completely sure this is something you want to do, sir?" asks Hamilton, whilst staring at the elevator door, fixing his suit.
"I'm positive, Marcus. This is exactly what we need to be doing," responds Wesley. "Why? Do you have any doubts?"
"No, sir. Just making sure you're ready for the heat you're about to take for doing this."
Wesley chuckles softly. "It's very doubtful we'll get any unfavorable criticism from this. It's just a P.R. spectacle, Hamilton. Nothing more, nothing less."
"And a damn good one, too."
"I know," Wesley says with an arrogant smirk. "That's what makes this so much easier. Besides, the only people I care about pleasing are already happily in line behind this project. There's really nothing to lose any sleep over."
Hamilton smiles. "Very inspiring, sir. Confidence has always been your greatest virtue."
Wesley raises his eyebrow with dubious surprise and looks at Hamilton with the corner of his eyes. "I thought my shameless penchant for betrayal was my greatest virtue."
"No. Probably second best, though."
"Second?"
"Indeed."
"Why second?"
Hamilton ponders on the question as the elevator doors open on the roof of the building. "Because I always thought it was more like a sixth sense to you, instead of a virtue. That's probably why."
A large white tent is set up with a podium in front of a crowd of reporters. At a distance, far down the streets, an eerily familial structure peers over the crowds and glances deeply at Wesley. The ghastly structure brings all sorts of unwanted imagery to his mind, yet this only strengthens his resolve. He stops before Hamilton and looks at him demandingly, turning back to the unresolved discussion.
"So... what? You just assume I have a birth-given gift for betraying and hurting those closest to me?"
"Well, you have to admit you have a pretty damn good record on this. Take Lindsey, for example. Or, how about your father? First time you see him in years and you shoot him in the knee."
"Wasn't the first time..."
"That was a robot."
"Not to me."
"Really, sir?" responds Hamilton doubtfully.
"Okay, fine. They're all Kodak moments, I'm sure," Wesley says as he proceeds towards the tent.
"Indeed. Especially that last one. One of your finest moments, I'd surmise."
"I don't doubt it," he responds sarcastically.
"As you very well should, sir."
Wesley stops and sighs exasperatingly. "Why thank you, Marcus," he responds sardonically. "I'm eternally grateful to have you to reiterate continuously what I already know."
"My pleasure, sir," replies Hamilton, blushing with pride. "You're very welcome."
Wesley shakes his head and chuckles beneath his breath, then they continue towards the tent. Wesley smiles and waves at the reporters as he passes them by. He's uncomfortable, yet by his looks, nobody would ever know. As they walk inside the tent, he's immediately greeted by a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a warm shake of hands and a bright smile.
"Wesley!" he says with enthusiasm. "So glad you could come, my boy."
"How could I miss this, Ron?" replies Wesley with a serene smile. "After all, I am paying for it."
"Well, I'm very glad to see you." He glances over Wesley's shoulder towards Hamilton. "Marcus! How are you?"
"Mr. Mayor," responds Hamilton callously, with a simple nod.
There's an uncomfortable silence as they glance around the area impatiently. "Well, uh, certainly been refreshing," finally responds the Mayor with a nervous chuckle. "You know, catching up and all."
Wesley looks at him with palpable dislike and an arrogant smile. Ronald feels his forehead sweat and quickly searches inside his coat for a handkerchief to wipe it off. He takes a few quick puffs of breath and looks back at Wesley smiling uncomfortably.
"So, how's about we get this show on the road, eh?" he says forcing himself not to stammer. He looks at Wesley, whose quiet smile has curled into a gleeful smirk. "Sir?" he asks nervously.
"Lighten up, Ronnie," Wesley says smiling, slapping the Mayor's arm. "Everything will be fine. Just be sure to address the audience exactly like we told you and you should be perfectly alright."
Ronald exhales a breath of relief. He looks at Wesley and chuckles nervously. "So, uh, shall we--?"
Wesley nods. "Proceed as plan, Mr. Mayor," he finally responds.
Ronald takes an exasperatingly deep breath and walks past Wesley and Hamilton. He rubs his eyes and licks his lips, then pushes himself towards the podium set up outside. The crowd of reporters and on-lookers slowly quiet down as he looks into their faces with a trustful smile and a warm wave.
He softly taps the microphone and inches closer to it. "Good afternoon, citizens," he begins. "As you're all very well aware of, today is a day were we make, once again, history for our beloved city. Today... one building falls and from its rubble we will build a fortress. A fortress that will undoubtedly save countless of lives. From the ashes of this Hyperion Hotel, a new hope for the many homeless and troubled youths that wander our streets in search of direction will flourish. A hope that will change lives forever. A hope that will give them the direction they long for. A home where they can express themselves freely and work and learn. A home where they will evolve and become good, honest-living citizens of this city and this, our beloved country.
"On this very spot," he says as he points behind him towards the dark Hotel, "the new Los Angeles Youth Center of Hope will be erected. As a beacon of light to shine over all of those children that have been shown the darkness of mankind all too often. Thanks to the efforts of my administration and the unending devotion and dedication of the kind people at Wolfram & Hart, this dream of progress and this desire to help those that most need us, has become a reality, and the pride of this, your humble servant."
As the words take flight from his lips, several men in white jump-suits scatter across the street. The spectators, reporters and police officers down in the streets below put on their protection masks. At a distance, further down the avenue, other city workers walk out through the gates of the Hyperion signaling the others.
"So," continues the Mayor, "it is my honor, and my privilege, to bring this new vision of ours into a reality we can all appreciate by tearing down the building before us, in order to bring forth our hopes for the men and women that will shape our future. Ladies and Gentlemen... welcome to a brand new dawn!"
A loud thud is heard rumble through the streets. The structure flashes with a power and rage rivaling that of a fusion bomb. And as the ground beneath their feet trembles with a mighty fury, the building once known as the Hyperion Hotel, a once abode of heroes, falls to its knees and shatters in a majestic beauty that escapes the use of words.
Wesley looks at the crumbling structure. His eyes remain unfazed by the beauty of destruction far from his grasp that keeps the audience present reeling. He looks at what had once been his home. A place where he left his dreams. A place where only memories dwelled. A place that once evoked a sense of hope. A sense of justice. A place where he learned what truly was life, and what love meant. A place that no longer stands. A place where everything eventually died. And as such, it has come to pass. A darkly-colored cloud rises from its ashes.
He shrugs at the sight. The implosion of the hotel had been quite a visual spectacle. He leans his head over to Hamilton and whispers to him. "We're done here," he says commandingly.
"Are you sure, sir?" asks Hamilton.
"Do you really think otherwise?" responds Wesley callously, as makes his way towards the elevator.
"Not really, sir," answers Marcus. "Would you like to grab a bite before heading back to the office?
"That'd be nice. Yes."
"Very well, then," responds Hamilton with a smile. "What will it be today? Italian, Polynesian, Chinese or Taco Bell?"
"Italian," he answers decisively, as he presses the elevator button. "I'm not letting you drag me into another Taco Bell again. It's bad enough we got sued for you letting everybody know they were using corpses in their processed meat."
"I sincerely apologize to best of my ability, sir. I don't think I should be held responsible for having a sensitive palate."
The elevator doors open and they step inside. "I know," responds Wesley callously. The doors close before them and Hamilton presses the button for the lobby. "Why don't you call Vera? See if she'd like to join us."
"That'd be splendid. Thank you, sir." Hamilton reached out for his cell-phone and dials. After a few seconds' pause, a voice at the other end greets him. "Honey!... Yes, I was just calling you to see if you wanted to join Mr. Pryce and I over for lunch... Yes... No, no Taco Bell... Probably The Olive Garden... Oh, that's alright... No problem, honey... Okay... Will do... Love you too." He hangs up and sighs as he slithers his cell back inside his suit. "Looks like it's just the two of us then."
Wesley snickers. "Huzzah."