Jeremiah found himself feeling far better over the following days than expected… And emotionally, much lighter.
How heavy had hatred been weighing upon his mind? How burdensome had fear born down upon his back?
As the days passed and he regained (And even exceeded) his usual level of energy and ability to move about (Aside from the broken arm, of course), he found himself feeling far more relaxed and carefree than he could even remember being over the recent years…
So of course that couldn't last. "...You must be kidding me, Charlotte."
Her cheerful smile seemed heavier due to the actual push table in front of her COVERED in paperwork. "I don't understand sir."
He squinted at the piles… No, they were still there. "I've been gone less than a few weeks! How did SO MUCH pile up already?"
She hummed, shifting piles to one side. "This group covers the recent policy changes you submitted two days ago, this one covers financial redistribution obligations after you decided to change how we invested the 'cookie jar' funds, these two stacks cover communications with legislators and judicial contacts that wanted to follow up with prior discussions, this stack over…"
Jeremiah held up a hand, stopping her. "One moment."
Had he done this?
Not directly. But he somehow knew he trusted those who had. Something like his conscience, and his two shoulder angels. "Bring them to my side…"
No, that was far too many pages of paper. "Scratch that. Do you still have that secured tablet ready with the digital copies as an option? Working through that mess with one arm would be exhausting."
She blinked, mildly surprised. "It will be ready in twenty four minutes, sir."
Good. "Until then, what other business? I assume that if I have recovered enough for paperwork then other needs must also be met."
A rare look of disapproval crossed her eyes as she glanced at something on her note list… And skipped over it. "In investment news, the Nasdaq has…"
Time passed comfortably as he fell into a familiar routine of adjusting stocks and investments and bonds and all sorts of things, slowly growing his empire despite the already sturdy foundations.
By this point, it was less about his endlessly growing wealth and more about the warm joy of being in his element. Of knowing what was going on, and feeling a sense of power and control over his direction in life.
"...Afternoon appointment is on schedule and we should be ready to go live by then..." But eventually Charlotte was forced to return to the top of her now covered note sheet. "And finally, unfortunately: We have a Mr. Trask attempting to contact you once more. I assume about gathering even more funds for his big robot toy plan."
Hmm? "Trask? Bolivar Trask… That greasy asshole who kept telling me how he was going to 'improve the human condition' and all that, 'protect humanity' and 'save the world', but always needed 'Just a little bit more funding' and such?"
She sniffed. "Indeed, sir."
God, without the constant screams of terror and hatred filling his brain it was FAR easier to see how money hungry this young privileged asshole was. "I kept feeling something was off about that brat BEFORE my brain tried to kill itself a half dozen times! Hell, ignoring his social agendia entirely, the project itself was a HUGE waste of investment, not to mention a bloody PR disaster…"
Damn it all, what had he been THINKING back before his heart failure!? "God, I feel like such a moron… 'Oh Mr. Wickles, the big scary mutants are coming! We better build REALLY BIG ROBOTS!' Expensive ones too, from what I can remember."
He failed to notice a subtle relaxing in Charlotte's stance as she hummed. "Shall I put him aside for now sir? Until you fully recover, at least?"
Hmm. "No, Trask is the sort of brat that would take anything less than a punch to a face as a 'Yep I love your idea' or worse." Also, something felt… Off about his past memories.
Even as obsessed as he was over his new found fellow 'compatriots' with Friends of Humanity, it was downright WRONG how much he was willing to invest in such a terribly thought out plan.
For one thing, even IF giant robots were the best design choice, wasn't Trask obsessed about each robot being able to do basically ANYTHING!?
From what he could remember after dozens of pitch sales and meetings and subtle digs to invest more, these stupid toys were supposed to fly and swim and dig and punch and launch missiles and…
Specialization existed for a reason. It traded variety and flexibility for drastically lower costs, simpler designs, greater stability, and easier manufacturing.
If you tried to make something like a Thneed in real life, then you'd just end up with a mess that does EVERYTHING in a horrifically inefficient and expensive way.
Jeremiah winced. "Shit, I've been basically investing into the robot equivalent of Dr. Kotch's cure all medication, didn't I? 'My robots will scan genetics on the fly and adjust their components to counter them and…' blah blah blah…"
He tried to run his hands through his hair, but of course one arm was in the cast. "Fuck, just the genetic scanner ALONE could have made me profit hand over fist in the medical scanner, not to mention the adjustable plates that could resist various forces… Wouldn't that basically redefine the entire concept of earthquake proofing a building's infrastructure!?"
But no! "Instead this asshole designs a billion different profitable products and HOT GLUES them into a giant money wasting robot! And I just… Went along with it!?"
Charlotte seemed to be holding back a grin. "What would you prefer to do then, sir? If you truly wish to 'punch him in the face', I can have it arranged."
Heh, it wouldn't even be the strangest thing he would have asked her to do. Still… "I've invested too heavily in this project. FAR too heavily… Ever heard of the 'sunk cost fallacy'?"
Her amusement vanished as she nodded.
Yeah, fair enough. She was after all his most competent assistant. "Well, I've basically funded this whole damn project solo by now. Pretty sure the other 'investors' are only putting in a fraction of what I've burned on it so far."
She looked expressionless. "Then shall we continue to fund his…?"
Hmm? "Oh no, fuck that brat."
That got a raised eyebrow and some confusion. "Sir?"
Jeremiah snorted. "Like I said, I've invested too much. It's all mine now. Get our lawyer teams on it, take everything that little boy owns. ESPECIALLY the things he supposedly DOESN'T own! I'm sure he's been skimming off the top and feeling smug about it this whole time, asshole feels like the sort of infernal prat that would get off on that sort of shit."
Her smile was evil and beautiful. "I'll organize it immediately."
Good. Fuck you brat, taking my money.
He blinked as one of her people walked swiftly in with… A heavily reinforced tablet. "Oh, right. I still have to do all this paperwork."
He received a compassionate but unyielding smile. "Yes sir."
Shit. "Fine, hand it over and I'll get started."
Stupid massive financial empire. And this shit was AFTER simplifying the running of this mess!
~~~Pocket System~~~
A completely DIFFERENT secretive organization (Less pro-mutant terrorism and more pro-profit nihilism) was ALSO confused at the moment. "What do you mean, 'He got better'?"
The agent sighed as she checked her notes. "Since I've been let go, it's hard to confirm anything without being too obvious that I'm digging for information… But from my friends in his staff, the new ones who don't know better than to talk work with me, he's already more active than he was before the heart attack. Like I said, he got better."
But how!? "That old bastard died on the medical table. Seven times! I know this for a fact because I drank a celebratory shot of very expensive alcohol for each one!"
He stood and began pacing behind his desk. "His survival was unlikely and unfortunate, but I was assured by many professionals, including those OUTSIDE of our organization, that he would NOT make a full recovery!"
The words 'horrendously large amounts of brain damage' had been passed about, it had been VERY convincing!
She hummed. "To be fair, he IS showing significant alterations to his behavior. Just… Not a loss of ability."
He stared at the window. "Explain."
A nod. "The target has emotionally regressed towards his younger years, from what I've gathered. Similar to those who become more childlike after heavy head injury, but he still displays some 'ticks' and behavioral habits that my profile of him listed, if to a lesser degree."
…Could he work with that? "Is he more susceptible to manipulation? I know he was growing more and more uncontrollable and further extreme politically as his health deteriorated…"
It had been to an excessive degree towards the end too, as that old man shifted from 'uncaring sharklike businessman' to 'angry old racist end times prepper'.
His agent sighed. "Unclear. Direct interaction with the target is limited to his head of staff, Charlotte Clearwater, and her personal teams. Even the kitchen staff has been personally selected and vetted by her, and she does NOT compromise when it comes to her responsibilities."
No, no she did not. It was his personal opinion that this particular exasperating woman was the sole reason why Wickles Industries hadn't fallen into hard times despite the many medical issues of their aging founder.
How an old bastard like Mister Jeremiah 'Fuck You' Wickles had somehow raised, trained, promoted and then TRUSTED any woman to have such high amounts of influence over his entire financial domain was beyond most people's ability to understand, especially considering some of the hatred that asshole spewed out over the years.
But he had, and 'Lady Clearwater' ran that old kingdom of companies like a Queen over her domain.
It was to the point where he and other organizations had spent the last few months developing long term cooperation plans to hopefully work with the woman when her old asshole of a boss finally kicked the bucket.
Because by this point, both those public AND 'private' forces in the dark just assumed she'd inherit everything. All signs pointed to that, at least.
Assuming of course that the old man wouldn't just let it all crash and burn out of spite instead of passing anything down.
Which wasn't off the table, but thankfully unlikely…
But no.
The asshole not only survived, but he was RECOVERING.
And that was complete bullshit!
Glaring at the wall harder, the head of the company tried to fit this new news into his existing plans and found himself failing to do so without significant replaning required. "Don't push any harder, your connection to the inside of that mess will only become more valuable over time. I'm increasing your work budget, so feel free to throw some get-togethers and offer help out to others financially if it will help improve your social status among your contacts."
She nodded. "Will do! And I'll let you know immediately if anything new comes out of it."
He waved that off. "No, use the dead drops like usual. We can't risk them 'spilling' information deliberately to smoke out agents like yourself, don't change your patterns for now please."
A few more pleasantries, a bit of a bonus for her finding this out so quickly and hopefully letting his teams get ahead of the ball on this whole disaster, and she was gone.
He fell into his chair, and growled at the desk. "Fucking old bastard, of COURSE you would fuck up at kicking the bucket just to make life harder for the rest of us! Shit."
Not to mention the budget issues that this would cause.
Forgetting the costs of spinning up some of the older 'no longer required' projects and some such required to keep an eye on that old man and this whole mess, he now had to scrap some expensive steps that were supposed to help forge future connections with the new 'Lady Clearwater'!
Connections that would NOW come off as offensive instead of consoling and helpful as intended.
…At least he could earn some good will and some benefits by passing along information about this entire shit situation to his competitors and rivals, assuming they hadn't heard yet.
Or take advantage of them instead, if fully unaware… Yes, that could work!
A slick grin began to form as he reconsidered a few options… Perhaps he could find some silver linings to this mess despite it all!
Happily humming, he flicked on the television in the corner for background noise while he carefully began to make some plans and… And…
Jeremiah Wickles was on TV, shot from one of his lavish bedrooms and apparently giving an interview.
Live on TV.
Being interviewed.
Right now.
What. The. FUCK!?