A young man sat quietly in the lobby. He tugged on the neck tie and scowled, brow furrowing as he fidgeted with the uncomfortable monkey suit. He couldn't remember the last time he had to dress formally for something. Usually, his uniform was fine for most formal functions he was called to attend. But this was different. It had to be different.
If this worked out, today he was leaving his old life behind. He didn't know if he felt afraid, or excited. Both? Neither?
The door opened, and he stood up perhaps a little too fast. Standing there was a man with a sour frown on his face, and impossibly smooth pale skin. His blond hair was coifed with meticulous attention, not a wisp out of place, slicked back like a shiny gel helmet. He looked down his long thin nose at the young man. Suddenly, he felt extremely conscious of his loose tie.
"Mr. Xanatos will see you now."
The young man picked up his briefcase. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, right on."
Right on?! He mentally slapped himself. This ain't one of your buddies, man! Get your act together!
He was led to an elevator, shining steel and brightly lit with a spotless white granite floor. The butler pressed a button, and it closed, ascending with a speed that made the man's stomach bottom out about halfway through the ride. It eventually opened to a hallway.
The hallway was uncomfortably long and uncomfortably tall and uncomfortably white. The walls were painted the softest cream, thin pinstripes of satin paint reaching to the ceiling, broken at intervals by some very expensive-looking Renaissance-esque paintings and live ferns. The carpet was thick, plush under his shiny shoes, red as pomegranates. He stumbled over his feet, gut flopping slightly.
The severe-looking man turned. "Do keep up."
"Sorry," The young man tried to keep his back straight, his posture as perfect as he could. "I'm not a fan of red carpets."
The blond man paused. "I suppose, given your previous occupation, there is a certain affiliation. Rest assured. They're clean."
"I can tell." His face quirked with an odd expression.
The door at the end of the hall was tall, carved mahogany. The young interviewee peered up at its carvings, impressed by the detail and texture of the bas relief. It reminded him of the front of the old Methodist church he knew growing up. He wished he could place it, but for the life of him, he couldn't.
His escort opened the door, the hinges swishing without making a sound. "Mr. Xanatos, your 11 o'clock interview is here."
"Thank you, Owen." He heard a voice, warm and rich. "I'll take the gentleman from here."
Owen dipped his head, gently closing the door behind him. The young man jumped slightly at just how heavy the door sounded. He looked around.
"Come on in, make yourself at home."
He looked up and around at what was most certainly the grand hall of a very, very old castle. It was the size of a basketball court, at least two storeys tall. The stone under his feet echoed with a sound as loud as hammer on rock, no matter how lightly he tread. The long table, carved in the same style as the door and lined with chairs to match, was covered with a long ruby-red runner. Candelabras, like miniature silver trees, stood at attention down the length. Tall tapestries, threadbare and faded, wafted gently in the hall. The windows were open, letting sunlight filter into the massive room.
David Xanatos rose from the chair at the head of the table. Even in his very closely tailored modern-day suit, he didn't seem out of place in this castle at all. How could a king ever be anything but at home in such finery as this? His face was bronze, chiseled, and very handsome. He swore that he saw a bust of some Greek king once that looked very much like him. With his neat goatee and simple ponytail, he looked fresh off the cover of Time magazine.
Xanatos shook his hand. He had a good grip; not too hard, and he didn't clasp for too long. "I see you came prepared." Xanatos gestured to the briefcase.
"Yeah, I wanted to make sure I had everything. I'd rather be ready for something big, so I prep for it." He answered.
"I like that about you. But you can leave that on the table for now. If you made it all the way here, you have all the qualifications I'm looking for. I'm just looking for a little bit more. You mind if we take a walk?"
Wait, I already got the job? He blinked. "Of course."
Xanatos gave him a funny look. "You don't sound comfortable. Are you alright?"
"Y-yeah, I'm just nervous."
Xanatos smiled, and shook his head. "You know what I like when I'm feeling anxious? A glass of wine. Do you drink?"
"Not on the clock." He answered quickly. "Kind of can't in my line of work. Especially not for what you want to hire me for."
Xanatos beamed. "Stellar answer! But really, it's a courtesy. I don't usually drink during the day, but I want to make you feel welcome."
He pondered this. "Trying a glass of your wine in a thousand-year old castle on the tallest building in New York?" The man smiled, in spite of himself. "As long as you aren't asking for a practical interview, I'd be an idiot to pass this up."
Xanatos obliged him. He walked him over to a glass display case. Xanatos slid down a discreet panel to reveal a ten-key pad. He punched in a passcode, and the door simply popped open. A cool breeze wafted from the case.
"Pick one." Xanatos offered.
He blinked a few times. Don't be indecisive. Just pick one, they all gotta be good. "This one."
"Oooh." Xanatos' eyes lit up. "An 1875 D'Oliveira Malvasia Madeira. I've been looking forward to trying this one."
"Oh, yeah?"
"I've been hoping to save it for a particularly special occasion." He gently withdrew the bottle, uncorked it, and let it breathe for a moment. He gazed at it fondly, and removed two hefty goblets from a cupboard under the display case. The man gulped when he saw them; silver, gleaming. They were beautiful.
"These aren't nearly as fancy. But I think I prefer silver over crystal."
The man suddenly felt incredibly, horribly out of place up here. A kid from the Bronx, whose childhoods were spent hawking mixtapes and playing kickball in the street between burned-out tenements never would have dreamed of something like this. He numbly took the goblet in his hands, trying to remember how his dad taught him to enjoy fancier wines.
Xanatos lit the candelabra and decanted the wine into a clear glass vase. The man could smell its bouquet. That was what it was called, right? A bouquet? He had no idea. Words were failing him here.
Xanatos let the decanter sit for a moment before lifting it gently to pour. "To your health, and to a beneficial future." Xanatos lifted the goblet.
"To your health, Mr. Xanatos." The man answered. They tapped the rims of their goblets with a soft ting! and each took a sip.
He never had anything more incredible in his life. It was dark, darker than anything he'd ever had. It was sweet and nutty, earthy in a way that shook his senses awake as if he'd spent his whole life asleep. It was soft on his palate and tongue, and kissed his tastebuds with a sigh as it went down.
Xanatos finished a sip, swishing it around in his mouth before taking a small breath through his nose. He closed his eyes and hummed. "Mmm. I'll have to see if I can get Owen to find another bottle of this. I'd love to share this with the board of directors at the end of this quarter. Goodness knows, we could all use a little cheering up."
The wine suddenly tasted bitter in his mouth as he thought about why this was only now the tallest tower in New York.
Xanatos took his glass to an arched door on the other side of the room. "Join me on the balcony?"
"Sure, I'd love to." The man carefully took the goblet with him, cradling it in his palm like a fragile little bird.
He shivered for a moment when he felt the wind blow across the top of the tower. The bluster shook the hedges that lined the gravel walk, broken only by the crumbling stone wall that shielded the courtyard from the wind, like ancient gray hands cupped around a tiny pool of green. There was a tall arch where the wall crossed over, leading down to a terrace.
Beyond that terrace lay the entire world.
He felt his breath catch in his throat as he followed Xanatos to the edge of the courtyard. Xanatos fearlessly stood, hand on a very short safety railing as he looked out over the horizon. The man found himself shivering, the wind tugging his jacket tails and ruffling his flat top. The cold gray fingers of the countless towers of Manhattan rose below them, piercing through the faint cloud cover that still lay over the city. The sun glared over the clouds, blinding him with the brilliance of the sky.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Xanatos had to raise his voice over the cold wind.
The man sipped his wine, trying to steel his nerves again. "I don't think I've ever seen it this way before."
"You'd expect it to be quiet and calm up here, wouldn't you?" Xanatos called.
The man shook his head. "Go skydiving a few times, and you get used to it."
"Brave of you. Most people never get over the fear of looking down." Xanatos gently rocked the goblet in his hand. "Me? I could never see myself anywhere but on top."
The man felt the hollow pit in the bottom of his stomach when he saw the hole in the crooked skyline. A reminder of what he, his sisters, his mother, this whole city had lost just two weeks ago.
I'm sorry, Dad. He silently prayed. I'm sorry I couldn't make you proud. But I have to live my own life. Not yours.
The man turned to Xanatos. "So… is this it?"
"Well, yes." Xanatos shrugged. "Your credentials are excellent, your record is spotless, and you've managed to impress me with your humility and willingness to adapt to an unexpected situation. Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah, just one."
"Ask away."
"I made it real clear that if I'm going to be working for you, I am never carrying a gun again. I'm not testing any military aircraft for you either. That's conditional to my employment."
Xanatos put a hand on his heart, raising his glass. "I promise. You'll never have to pull a trigger ever again. Why would I force a gun on someone who was born to fly? Waste of talent, in my opinion. Speaking of talent… let's talk about your pay, Mr. Maza."
"Mr. Maza was my father." He smiled sadly. "Please, call me Derek."
He could almost lose himself in that smoke. The way that the flux burned away and the solder formed perfect, mirrored bubbles at each joint was a simple sort of joy to him. Like a painter putting flowers on a hillside. He checked his box full of resistors, fishing one out with a pair of tweezers. He checked the colored bands that were painted on the tiny beige cylinder, checking it against the blueprints on his desk. Running some quick math in his head, he checked the calculations on the paper against what he held in his hands.
He set the head down, threading the resistor into place. He wiped off the tip of the soldering iron on a wet sponge, wiping off the oxide waste. Another curl of smoke, and it was one more step to completion. He clipped the leads on the resistor and slid the circuit board back into its slot. The new motor was a much stronger one with a much higher power draw. After the last one burned out mid-chomp at the competition, he wanted to make sure the most important part of his Mouser was battle-ready.
He palmed up the head of the Mouser, holding it to the light. His face didn't show it, but he smiled at the little robot. He pushed his fingers and thumb into the head of the sharp-toothed, one-eyed little metal T-rex and wiggled it. He opened and shut its mouth like a tiny tin Muppet, bobbing its head along as it wandered through a Cretaceous landscape in his imagination.
"Raaar." He opened its mouth, breathing a stream of imaginary fire. Of course, it would be a long time–if ever–before he could ever get one of his Mousers equipped with a flamethrower.
The bang at his door made him yelp, juggling the head of the Mouser in his hands before it bounced on his carpet and rolled under his bed. The door opened.
"H-hey, Dad." Baxter stammered.
"Don't you 'H-hey, Dad' me, young lady."
The man in the door, as wide at the gut as he was at the shoulder, crossed his arms over the holey red Chicago Bulls t-shirt and scowled down at him. He had a face like a French bulldog, with an underbite to match. He held up a letter in his hand. "What the fuck is this?"
Baxter swallowed. In the back of his head, he was quickly boxing up his feelings of joy and trying to keep his panic from flaring out of control. "I haven't read it yet. What is it?"
"What is it, Daddy?" The man mocked with a thin, high voice. "The fuck you think it is?" He slammed the letter down on the table. It was from NYU, Baxter's other school.
"Go ahead. Open that." The man gestured with his hand.
Baxter's thin, brown fingers tugged the letter out of the ripped top of the envelope, unfolding it. His eyes scanned the page. It was his tuition bill for the Fall semester. His heart sank.
"Dad, I-I got a full-ride from the robotics team. It's covered!"
"Is it?" The man snatched the letter out of Baxter's hands. "I suppose that full-ride covers the gas I burn driving your sorry ass all the way there from the high school?"
Baxter looked down. "No, sir."
"You got two options, girl. You start putting away those damn toys and be grateful that I get you to the high school, or you find yourself some suh-MARTER way to get there. I ain't paying for your food, your clothes, your roof, AND your toys!"
He swept his hand across Baxter's desk, flinging the box full of resistors off the floor and into the carpet. Baxter gasped. But he couldn't say anything. He knew he couldn't say anything. His dad pointed down into the carpet with a sneer. "Pick up that shit, and take out the garbage."
Baxter's father slammed the door.
Baxter's teeth dug into his lower lip. He picked up a pillow off his bed, and he screamed into it, fingers clawing into the flat, sweat-stained bit of comfort. He emptied his lungs into the safest place he could once, came up for air, and screamed into the pillow again for good measure.
The longer he stayed in his room, the more likely his dad was to make him find a switch. And definitely not the kind he needed to replace in his controller. He got up, scrubbing his eyes out with his fingers to make sure his father saw no tears, and went to the kitchen. He hefted the garbage bag, dead bottles of cheap beer clanking in the bottom.
He walked down the stairs of the building, shouldered the front door, and dropped the bag onto the curb. He looked back at the skinny pink tenement building with the peeling paint and the two tacky lion statues flanking the door. He hated those damn gargoyles. Reminded him of the man who roared at him every time he opened that door for blocking his view of the TV when he was in the kitchen.
He sat, elbows on his knees, hands on his chin, as he stared out into the street. In the distance, he could make out the skyline. He could name every single one of those buildings; the Woolworth, the Chrysler, the Empire, the Eyrie… he knew them all. They say no one in New York looked up at the buildings, except for the tourists. But how couldn't he? He loved them. They were like tall, quiet guardians in the distance. Lighthouses in a sea of faces that threatened to wash him away every single day.
As much as he hated his father, he couldn't bear the idea of leaving this city. New York was his home. He just wished he could leave this damn house. If he could fly, he'd leave this place and never come back.
Longingly, Baxter watched the last bits of sunlight paint the sky orange, then pink. He stood up, deciding he should probably start working on fixing his dad's dinner. He turned to look at that ugly pink tenement house with its tacky gargoyles, overgrown planters, and sagging windows. He quietly resigned himself to going back inside, when he heard the crunch of a tire and the purr of an engine.
He looked over his shoulder. It was a late model black Lincoln, low to the ground with windows tinted so dark and reflective it was practically black obsidian. He could see his reflection in the mirror-like window slowly slide into nothing as it rolled down.
"Is this the home of Baxter Stockman?" A man's voice, with a strong accent he couldn't place.
"Ummm…" Baxter looked distrustfully at the car's dark, impenetrable interior. "No. No, it's not. Sorry, you're at the wrong address."
"A valiant attempt at deception, Mr. Stockman." The man inside said quietly. "You look just like your photograph. Congratulations on your victory at MIT tonight. You should feel honored."
"Th-thank you." Baxter's teeth chattered. It was a warm night. Why did he feel so cold? He picked up the garbage bag. "I should go, I have chores to finish."
"Bayley!" A man's voice, deep and furious, shouted from inside the tenement. "Get your ass back in here, girl, make supper!"
Baxter grimaced, bones vibrating at the sound of the name he hated and never picked. "Yes sir! I'm almost done!"
"You are not respected." The man inside the black Lincoln noted.
"Aren't all dads like that, though?" Baxter rolled his eyes.
The man leaned out of the shadows inside the car, and Baxter could finally see his face. He was pale, with skin thin and taut. His cheekbones were strong, features sharp as glass. His hair and suit were carbon-black, blending into the dark interior of the vehicle. Baxter felt his throat go dry when he saw the man's eyes. Three thin scars, starting at his temple and ending at his chin, crossed over his cloudy right eye. The man looked like an Asian Dracula, and his smile sent chills down Baxter's spine.
"What would you do if you had an opportunity to leave him behind?"
Baxter scoffed. "Yeah, no way. I know better than to get into a car when a stranger's offering candy."
"You are a brilliant mind in your field, Mr. Stockman." The man's voice was smooth, oily. He imagined that if a snake could speak, it would have been right at home in that black suit. "Surely you've heard of TCRI, and the body of research we represent."
"We?" Baxter's eyes narrowed. Then, they widened in shock. "Oh my god. You're Oroku Saki?!"
"My reputation precedes me." The man's smile was thin, self-satisfied.
"Does it ever!" Baxter breathed. "I'm a big fan of the work you guys did on the Mars Rover! I wrote a paper about it for school."
"This paper?" The man held a sheaf of papers in between his fingers. Baxter didn't have to squint to see his name, his schoolwork, in the man's hands.
"How did you…?"
"My resources are significant. My outreach program approached your professors at NYU. We're recruiting talent. And you, Mr. Stockman, represent immense talent. I'm not one to let an exquisite opportunity escape me."
"Bayley! Get your ass in here before I beat it red!"
Baxter's heart thumped. He looked between the tenement building and the black car.
"It seems we have common roots, you and I." Mr. Oroku said smoothly. "A father who doesn't appreciate our talents, our gifts. The power we have. He fears it. He rejects it. I do not fear you, Baxter Stockman. I do not reject you. Come with me, and I will see your gifts to heights this small and pathetic man cannot imagine."
Baxter dropped the garbage on the sidewalk. "I'm listening."
Oroku Saki smiled, a face like a particularly satisfied cat. He opened the door of the black Lincoln.
