Rage against the heavens: chapter 33: Please, don’t make me angry Mr. Rodarch

The television was turned on.

A smooth, confident voice carried through the half-destroyed office like it owned the place.

“…with the latest polling out of Los Angeles County, it seems all but certain that Darin Rodarch will secure the mayoral seat. His campaign promises of economic revitalization, infrastructural repairs, and a return of public confidence after last summer’s unrest have resonated with voters. Most analysts say his lead is strong enough that, barring a political miracle, the race is effectively over.”

The screen flickered, snowed, settled again. A blonde woman behind a polished desk smiled like someone feeding meat to an audience of wolves.

“Every projection — Fox, CNN, even the conservative-leaning California Tribune models  has Rodarch winning by a comfortable margin. His campaign spokesman has called the election all but decided.”

I exhaled smoke and watched it roll out of my mouth in a slow, bored stream.

“It sounds grand, right?”

The smoke drifted low, almost lazily, and found a place to land. Right on the head of a man kneeling before me. It sat there like an insult that pretended to be dust and ash. The man didn’t even lift his face to wipe it away.

He had seen better days.

Better months.

Better lifetimes.

His suit had been sharp this morning, probably a thousand dollars, maybe more — now it looked like someone had fed it to a dog and asked for the scraps back. His face was bruised, lip cut, hair stuck to his forehead from sweat and tears. If dignity ever lived in him, it packed its bags and took a bus out of this room a while ago.

Pathetic, really.

“Mr. Rodarch,” I said, drawing the words out like they were boring paperwork. “None of this was necessary, you know?”

He shook like a leaf held up in a hurricane, held up because he wasn’t kneeling of his own free will. Two masked figures on either side kept him upright. Black suits. Pencil skirts. Corporate cut with mafia discipline. Perfect posture. Perfect silence.

If you were going to bust cap and knees and take names, better be stylish looking while doing so.

Rodarch swallowed hard. “I… I am sorry. I am sorry, Mr. Chambers. I didn’t want to anger or insult you.”

I raised one eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

I took what was left of the cigarette between my lips, leaned down, and pressed the burning end against his cheek.

He screamed. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just raw sound from a raw nerve. The masked figures held him tight when he tried to jerk back, and his knees slipped on the broken glass beneath them.

I sighed.

There were a hundred things I’d rather be doing.

Thalia waiting for me at home. I would prefer to be watching one of the kid shows she liked with her than being here.

I would preferred being with Beryl, my sister, passing time with her or helping her in whatever thing she would be doing instead of being here.

I would’ve given anything to be on the couch with any them instead of here breathing in dust, smoke, and to hear the sound of a grown man crying.

But needs must.

That old motto.

I always hated how it tasted like rust.

I pulled out another cigarette. The click of a lighter snapped through the room. A flame bloomed in front of my face, steady and sharp.

I leaned forward, lit the cigarette, and pulled in a slow breath before stepping back.

My homunculus daughter, the one who looked like a teenager, the one who technically hadn’t even reached her first birthdaysnapped the lighter shut.

I gave her a small nod.

Life was different now. Almost funny, if you were the type of person who laughed at funerals. Magic, science, blood, gods, demigods, monster eating demigods knowledge from outside this universe. So much things had changed in such a little amount of time.

I was a father twice over and I was planning to fuck the gods up. It was what it was.

I guess gou get used to the strange when you are the one who is around and who built it.

I turned back toward Rodarch.

“You said you didn’t want to anger me,” I started, smoke curling out of my nose, “yet you did everything possible to accomplish exactly that. Do you think I am stupid?”

He blinked up at me, snot dripping, eyes red. The kind of man who rehearsed speeches in front of mirrors, who practiced his handshakes, who wore his patriotism like cologne. The kind of man who was hailed as example to follow, a real American.

Now he was just a trembling mess.

“Did you truly think you could play me?” I asked. “Take my money, my donations, the patronage of the corporation I own, the Huntingtons, the Carrow Foundation, the De Soto Trust, and half a dozen others? Take our influence, the press we control, the votes we deliver, the goddamn power grid of this city and then laugh in my face?”

His voice cracked. “Laugh… in your face?”

I gave a small nod.

One of the masked figures stepped forward and kicked him square across the cheek. The sound of cartilage snapping popped through the room, and Rodarch wailed, a guttural, pathetic noise that belonged to animals in traps, not men in suits.

He collapsed. They didn’t let him stay down. Another masked figure grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him upright until he was back on his knees, blood and spit hanging from his chin.

“When I made my device,” I said, voice level, “the one that generates unlimited energy, I didn’t build it for wealth. It was a mean to an end. I didn’t build it to buy politicians. I built it because I wanted to make something better. For everyone. Jobs for the poor. Heat for the old. Power for the hospitals and the shelters and the people who spent winter choosing between eating, medicine and electricity.”

I stared at the cigarette between my fingers.

“I didn’t invent something. I fucking changed humanity. No more fossil fuels. No more oil wars. No more oil spills killing oceans or power plants choking the air. A leap forward, a bridge to a century where we don’t freeze or drown or choke to death because some boardroom full of old men voted profit over mercy.”

Rodarch sobbed quietly. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of pity.

“And then I saw you,” I went on. “A man whose city was cracking apart. After the riots, people lost faith. They lost homes. They lost belief in leadership. You were a joke. A puppet. A footnote in history.”

I tapped my cigarette against my thigh.

“I was the one who made you viable. I am the reason people want you to be mayor. Free energy for the people. Tens of thousands of new jobs in manufacturing and distribution. Investors lining up like pilgrims. You could have been a symbol of rebirth.”

His shoulders shook.

“I gave you enough money that even if you lost this election, you’d be set for life. I handed you a legacy. All you had to do was listen. All you had to do was remember who lifted you out of the gutter.”

I stepped close enough that he could see his own reflection in my eyes.

“And you couldn’t do it.”

I crouched, leveling myself with him.

“You took money from the Koch-aligned Freedom Prosperity PAC. From the Heritage Tomorrow Council. From the Petroleum Defense League. From half a dozen think-tanks and ‘non-profits’ who pretend to care about the nation while cashing checks from oil barons.”

His throat worked uselessly. One of the masked figures twisted his arm until he choked on a scream.

“You hated the idea of change,” I said softly. “You hated the idea of the poor getting heat in winter. You hated the idea of immigrants with jobs. You hated the idea of a city where you couldn’t sell fear for votes.”

I leaned even closer.

“And you sold me out for what? A few hundred thousand dollars? Spare change? Because you think giving people a future is charity. Because you want your voters to stay desperate enough to crawl after you.”

I chuckled once. No humor in it.

“To be honest with you, I’m not even angry. I’m annoyed. Mildly inconvenienced. That can change, Mr. Rodarch.”

I waved the cigarette around us.

“And look at this place.”

The office had been elegant once. polished wood desk, shelves of framed photos, flags perched for patriotic display.

Now the desk was in pieces, glass littered the floor, a painting hung in tatters, and the bookshelves leaned like drunks.

Chairs shattered. Papers torn. Only the mayor’s chair remained untouched, because I was sitting in it.

I stood up and walked toward him, slow, deliberate. Each step crunched on broken glass.

Rodarch whimpered when I crouched and held the burning end of the cigarette near his face. He tried to recoil. Couldn’t. Hands clamped his shoulders like steel.

I brought the cigarette closer to his eye, close enough for him to feel the warmth, close enough that one twitch from me would change his face forever.

He panted, breath quick and sharp. His pupils shrank. He smelled like fear and sweat and the worst kind of regret.

I stopped with the ember just inches from his eye. We stared at each other. Then I closed my fingers around the cigarette. The ember hissed and died between my knuckles.

He pissed himself. It hit the floor in a quiet patter. His legs shook so violently I thought his bones might rattle free.

Internally, one thought crossed my mind:

I swear on the grave of my grandparents from my first life, if that touched my shoes, I will kill him myself damned the loss of investment.

I didn’t let it show on my face.

No, instead, I gave him a smile, one gentle, neighborly, like I was advising him on which wine to serve at dinner.

“This wasn’t me being angry, Mr. Rodarch. This was a warning. For the sake of the both of us, don’t make me angry in the future.”

I turned, walking toward the door. The masked figures shifted, opening it before I even reached them.

Before stepping out, I looked back once.

“I’m always watching. So before you make things worse, don’t go to the police. Because of my connections, my wealth, and what I built, I’m far too valuable to touch. And you?”

I held his gaze just long enough.

“You are not.”

The room stayed silent.

I nodded once.

“It was a pleasure.”

And then I left.

———————————————————————

The heavy door sighed shut behind me, muffling the pathetic sounds of Darin Rodarch.

The hallway felt like stepping into a different universe, a better one, sterile, quiet, the air cool and still. For a moment, there was just the hum of the building’s ventilation and the distant, muted city sounds from far below.

For a moment, there was a sliver of peace.

It lasted for exactly three seconds.

The vibration started in my inner jacket pocket, a specific, insistent buzz that felt less like a ringtone and more like a bone deep tremor.

I froze mid-step, my shoulders slumping in a wave of pure, unadulterated exasperation.

What now?!

Was some peace too much to ask? I was owed at least five minutes right?

I reached into my pocket, my fingers closing around the cool, matte black casing of a phone that wasn't a phone, one I had made myself.

There were only very few people who could call this number.

I thumbed the answer button and brought it to my ear. “I really hope you’re calling for a good reason Hecate,” I said, my voice flat and tired, “and talking about magic isn’t a good reason when we have purposefully chosen days in the week for that.”

“Firstly, magic is always a good reason,” said the goddess of magic “and secondly, I’m calling because I succeeded, Alexander.”

I had been about to start walking again, to make for the elevator and the promise of home. Her words stopped me cold, my feet rooting to the polished concrete floor.

“Do you mean about that?” I asked, my voice lower, the weariness replaced by a sharp, focused intensity.

“Yes,” she replied. “ I succeeded in accomplishing that. Forethought agreed to meet you.”