Cutscene - Introspections III (Unbetaed Final Draft) (Patreon)

Cutscene - Introspections III

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The corridor stretched before him, pristine white walls and gleaming glass partitions painting a picture of clinical efficiency that bordered on the futuristic. Each step of his white Oxfords echoed softly on the polished floor as he took his time, no need or desire to hurry. His pale gray suit, carefully selected to embody Medhall's ethos of elegant performance, melded seamlessly with the sterile surroundings. The silk tie, its color and pattern meticulously matched to his bespoke suit, lay perfectly flat against the crisp white shirt, a portrait of unerring attention to detail.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Anders.”

Maximilian Anders tilted his head in the slightest of nods, his lips upturning just a hair in recognition. "Michelle."

The attractive executive assistant smiled wider at his acknowledgement, a pretty flush hitting her cheeks as she continued past him, the sharp click of her heels punctuating her path.

As she finally walked past him and the click of her heels began to fade away as she rounded the corner, the smile he wore — the ghost of it, at the very least — vanished, his mouth its usual blank line.

Max held her image in his mind for a moment, considering. She was certainly attractive enough, in a generic, surgically-enhanced way - perhaps falling within the lower range of his admittedly high standards. But…

But her procedures were amateurish, noticeable to his discerning eye. Any personal attention she received from him never exceeded the usual half hour every other week, or when the need took him. Too little distance, and she might start having ideas.

As Max continued his procession down the long hallway to his office, he engaged in the expected ritual - nods of acknowledgment, exchanges of polite greetings and respectful deference from the executives and researchers who crossed his path. Outwardly, he projected an air of composed authority, the very picture of a leader in effortless command of his domain. But in the privacy of his own mind, contempt simmered, a persistent anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

These sycophants, with their fawning smiles and eager-to-please demeanors, were so pathetically transparent in their toadying. He would say he despised their obsequious pandering, the way they postured in a vain attempt to earn his favor or catch his eye, but then he’d be the one lying to himself. If only they knew the depths of his disdain for their pitiful displays. The sheep, prostrating themselves before a wolf in tailored wool...

Unbidden, his thoughts turned to his father, and Max fought the urge to curl his lip. His father had never been one to indulge in the power plays, at least in this manner, too hard-headed in pursuit of his endgame, his goal to “focus on what was important.” No, Richard Anders was too harsh, petty, and savage of a man to apply any sort of give to any aspect of his life.

But then, his father never truly understood the importance of appearances, of theater - that perception was its own reality.

Max knew better. He understood the necessity of cultivating an image, of playing a role. Out there, he might don his armor, seize his birthright. But here, in this world of wealth and influence, he wore a different kind of armor - bespoke suits and a veneer of respectability, a polished mask for the ugliness that lurked beneath. 

In this arena, he was master of the game, king and kingmaker both.

"Morrison," he greeted, his voice a deep timbre that filled the expanse, acknowledging the head of R&D lingering by the door of an elevator. The scientist, caught mid-step, paused and straightened, a flicker of pride lighting up his eyes before he nodded back with a respectful “Mr. Anders”, before disappearing behind the door that hummed softly as it closed.

"Walters," Max Anders spoke again as he continued, his gaze shifting to the finance director who emerged from a side office, clutching a tablet like a lifeline.

Max noted the tension in her shoulders, the stress lining her face. Good. Let them feel the pressure, the weight of his expectations. He would accept nothing less than their best, their total dedication to his vision. 

“M-Mr. Anders, good afternoon.” Anita Walters straightened her pantsuit and offered him a smile nearly as tight as his own along with a nod, stress visible on her face as she quickly made her way past him.

“To you as well, Anita.”

Each name he uttered reinforced the hierarchy in place, every executive on his floor acknowledging him with a respectful nod at the very least.

Reaching his office, the CEO paused, hand hovering over the biometric scanner as he stared at his reflection in the glass door. Light blond hair with not a strand out of place, teeth as white as his shirt, handsome face unmarred by the garishness of cheap surgery… Perfection.

The door slid open with a silent grace, revealing an office that was an extension of the corridor's aesthetic — sleek, modern, and bathed in the natural light from his floor-to-ceiling windows.

He stepped inside, the door closing shut behind him with barely a whisper behind him as he strode over the far end of the room, soles clicking on the gleaming polished floor. He paused for a moment as he reached the end of his path, casting a glance over to the large glass and steel desk at his side, before turning his gaze to the window and looking out over the city that sprawled below. This view, a testament to his life's work and his family’s legacy, filled him with a profound sense of purpose.

Here, in this citadel of glass and steel, he was more than a name; he was a vision brought to life, a force of raw power, prestige and dignity.

And despite it all, he was filled with all this unyielding rage.

He was a man of wealth, composure, power and sheer will. In an ideal world, he would never have a moment of stress or discontent, given the means at his command.

Yet, the world was far from ideal and he knew that much. Still, he made sure that potential problems were mitigated, loose ends were tied up and issues were resolved in such a way that if they were not already, they would handle themselves in time.

So it was not often that such a mess of a situation was dumped on his lap without notice, because of pure incompetence, no less, from his own appointed lieutenant.

Max had always known James to be an intelligent man, dutiful, controlled — nearly as poised as himself but far less charismatic — all in all, the ideal subordinate. Far less trouble to manage than Brad, but that was just damning with faint praise to say the least. The sort of insult that could only be understood as comparing a dutiful butler to a mad dog on a tight leash.

He had never had a bad word for the man, not in his civilian guise, and certainly not in costume as Krieg, the man nearly as capable in both aspects of his life as Kaiser was. To make matters even better, the man was loyal to a fault with seemingly no mind to usurp his position, which was more than he could say for some. 

Ignoring Hookwolf’s own grumbles, he’d often had to worry about Kayden sometimes…

Nevertheless, Krieg was his best man, his right hand even.

Skilled, dutiful, and composed.

Never had he expected anything less from the taciturn man.

Which was why he felt stunned to his core that a simple ambush and a simple initiation event had gone so unimaginably wrong just five days prior.

The plan had been relatively simple, when Krieg had floated it to him weeks ago.

With Lung out of the way and the ABB in tatters, the Empire needed to step in and make it clear that they were a dominant power before any other force within or without the city could rise up. Part of this involved striking fear into the remnants of the ABB before they could properly solidify, and another part necessitated the indoctrination of many entrants into the fold of the Empire proper.

The timeline for the plan had been rushed ahead when some idiot child in a mask and motorcycle leathers decided to announce his enmity towards the Empire and Kaiser himself by not only affiliating with the ABB but taking it over as their new leader, of all things, publicly declaring as much with a video of him hurling a van into Empire-owned property and causing a massive conflagration that took down a good portion of an Empire-owned block.

If the destruction had not been enough of a statement, what had been graffitied on the van certainly made the point clear.

So, really, it was only understandable that he had not been feeling entirely composed when he ordered Krieg to make the boy and the ABB pay. Still, he had never thought it would lead to this…

Maximillian Anders let out a long sigh, the man directing his gaze to the far side of the Bay, eyes searching towards where he knew the Docks were.

This humiliation.

Stormtiger beaten and broken was one thing. It certainly hadn’t been the first time the musclebound Blaster got too cocky and received a beating. But a brand new Empire cape left in critical condition and possibly dead if not for Othala’s healing hands?

One adolescent rookie cape who seemed about as intelligent as one could expect from a lower-class child in this city against two experienced and powerful parahumans along with two more rookies as force multipliers? It should have been a done deal. Especially with one of the boy’s own traitorous and opportunistic lieutenants informing the Empire of his movements as well as when and where to strike?

On paper, it was excessive.

And, in truth, it had been.

Just in a direction he hadn’t expected.

If it had ended there, things would have been fine. Really, he might have been satisfied. At the very least, they had more information on a new threat, and the only cost was some humiliation at the hands of a rising figure and no more damage that couldn’t be fixed with a session under Othala’s care.

But no, of course not, it couldn’t simply end there.

It never did in situations like this.

At the very least, he did learn something else from the situation. The child clearly took his role as leader of the ABB seriously.

Extremely so.

The precautions taken had been well-thought out and well-implemented.

Dozens of white vans throughout the city, most of them acting as decoys and most of them entirely unaffiliated with one another. Most importantly, none of them related to or owned by anyone even tangentially affiliated with the Empire.

The perfect location to carry out the initiation, far from what could be considered PRT-held territory and equidistant from ABB stomping grounds and Empire land alike, while also being in such a run-down part of town that only Merchants and no-name street gangs would even bother trying to “hold” it.

The idea of anyone seeing or hearing anything was unlikely, and that anyone would care enough to call for help even less so. Even the idea of law enforcement and cape support making it there was theoretical, at best.

Unfortunately, unlikelihoods and theoreticals were not impossibilities. 

Two of his men literally torn apart, six times that number murdered, and almost three times that number, mostly Empire initiates, in various degrees of serious injury. One apparently hurled from a rooftop, at that.

Even as his blood pressure had risen from sheer rage that same early Saturday morning, he couldn’t help but admire the sheer brutality. It was something worthy of Allfather or Marquis, as much as he despised giving that fop any credit.

Considering he had heard from those who escaped that the ABB adolescents had taken to calling him the “Blue Eyes White Dragon”, it wasn’t quite unexpected, in hindsight.

Regrettable, of course.

But not entirely unexpected.

Max frowned as he stared off into the city as Brockton Bay stretched to the horizon, a patchwork quilt of faded glory and tarnished dreams. The Downtown skyline gleamed in the late afternoon light, steel and glass monuments to wealth and power thrusting upwards like an insult to the heavens. But even from this lofty perch, Max could see the rot setting in at the edges from the Docks and the other side of the city, the slow, inexorable decay that crept through the city's bones.

A fitting enough metaphor, he mused, for an organism beset by disease, by parasites feeding on its lifeblood.

His gaze traced over the distant Docks, skeletal and rusting, the once-thriving heart of the city's blue-collar identity now little more than a graveyard of broken dreams and shattered lives. And who fills that void, hmm? Pushers and pimps, thugs and thieves, drug-addled fools desperate for their fix.

Max's lip curled, a sneer of aristocratic disdain. Pathetic. A city of sheep, bleating for a shepherd to save them from the wolves at the door. Wolves like that arrogant child and his band of mongrels.

Fury simmered in his veins, slow and sulfurous. It had been days since he'd received the report from Krieg, days since he'd learned of the ignominious defeat dealt to his Empire by a boy playing at being a warlord. The wounds to his soldiers' flesh had been healed by Othala's gracious touch, but the blow to their pride, to his pride, was not so easily mended.

That an upstart like him could challenge me, could spill the blood of my men on the streets of my city...it's unforgivable. 

Intolerable. 

His hands tightened behind his back, knuckles whitening. He remembered well the surge of anger, of indignation, when Krieg had first brought him the news. The sheer effrontery of it, the unmitigated gall. That this child, this insect, could believe himself a match for the Empire, for Maximilian Anders...

Arrogance. Hubris of the highest order. But what else can one expect, from the product of such inferior stock? The son of a whore and a bastard, without a doubt, gutter trash that lucked into powers and foolish enough to grasp beyond his station.

His newest burner phone had buzzed that night, an unwelcome intrusion to his sleep. Krieg's name on the display, bearing news of the defeat, another humiliation visited on Max's soldiers. Stormtiger, beaten to within an inch of his life, Nordwind, nearly comatose. Their informant within Hardkour's ranks, gone silent, likely dispatched with extreme prejudice.

At the time, Max had listened to Krieg's report with a face carved from ice, his voice betraying not a flicker of the incandescent rage simmering within. Only after ending the call had he permitted himself to feel it, to stoke the flames of his fury until they burned white-hot behind his eyes.

Now, days later, that anger had crystallized into something diamond-hard and unforgiving. 

He exhaled slowly, a frozen sigh. 

The sun dipped lower on the horizon, shadows lengthening across the city like grasping fingers. Max watched the light fade and felt only a grim sense of purpose.

He raised his head slightly, gaze rising from the bottom of his windowsill to the proper view of Brockton Bay in the late afternoon sunlight once more. Light blue eyes narrowed as they took in the city’s skyline, a dwindling little thing even after years and years of effort on his part.

This city could have been another great, he mused. Not quite a New York or a Los Angeles, but at the very least, the San Diego of the East Coast. He remembered his adolescence, a time when that seemed like a possibility for the city he was born and raised in. When shipping was vibrant, capes were barely a decade old concept, and Brockton Bay was a thriving, growing living organism of a city on the cusp of greatness. 

Even after the “Golden Age of Parahumans” ended, that didn’t really affect a thing within the city proper.

Now, Leviathan…

The CEO let out a quiet sigh as his eyes focused again, gaze locked firmly on the city in front of him. A sea of encroaching red appeared in his mind’s eye as it flooded over the city, its origin point being the building he stood in up to the point where it came to a sudden stop several blocks away from the Docks.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, indeed, he closed his eyes as he dwelled on the thought, the visual of Empire territory unfading from his mind. It would have come down to this anyway, he told himself. With the musclehead of a dragon gone and territory up for grabs, it would have only been a matter of time before the unpowered thugs and the capes themselves started questioning why he wasn’t expanding the Empire’s demesne.

He scoffed at the thought. And that would only lead to them questioning me as a leader.

Max let out another scoff, this one far less audible. As if most of those fools could think past the next morning with any degree of clarity.

It was obvious to anyone with even two brain cells to rub together, meaning himself, Krieg, and Victor, for the most part, that their interests benefited from Lung far more than they lost, both immediately and in the long-term. Every empire needed an enemy to focus their efforts on lest they become prone to infighting due to a lack of challenge. 

Unfortunately, his Empire was no different. 

A perfectly detestable, powerful, monstrous illegal immigrant from a nation known historically as either a covert or overt enemy, entering their homeland with a wave of bodies, killing their brothers, kidnapping their wives, sisters and daughters for lascivious purposes, along with poisoning their friends using back-alley drugs?

With the Empire already largely in control of the areas of town that mattered, and Lung being there to publicly split PRT attention and draw more people to his ranks, there wasn’t much else he really felt the need for. The dragon and his cronies were basically a walking advertisement for the Empire. Almost too perfect, honestly. Really, what more could any ruler ask for than a ready-made enemy with a loyal army hand-crafted to incite racial tensions and shift otherwise neutral or friendly figures into ardent fighters or sympathizers for the cause? 

Aside from the worthless gang of drug dealing nobodies that cropped up in the last year, who else would the Empire have to fight? A largely Caucasian Protectorate, a superhero family that was just as white as his own, and a hidden figure in the form of Coil that most of the city didn’t even know existed. All the way down to the mayor and PRT director, this city was so Caucasian, the war was effectively already won from the time his own father had triggered.

Truth be told, if he had been a more petty man, he would have put Lung on his Christmas list, simply for making his job so much easier over the last decade. Not that the dragon-man wouldn’t have simply burnt said gift rather than risk opening it, but the look of confusion on his face would have been worth it.

He had tried picturing how Lung would look if he actually did it, but it just couldn’t match up to the sheer knowledge that it was actually done and that the man would have been too baffled to know how to respond. Just not the same, he thought with a shake of his head.

Max allowed himself a moment of private amusement at the thought, a razor-thin smile slicing across his face. Ah, the little things in life. Still, he knew better than to let flights of fancy distract him from the task at hand. The Empire's position was strong, yes, but it was not unassailable. Not yet.

Recent events had made that all too clear.

Maximilian Anders knew what he had to do.

Granted, the public’s attention had shifted towards mocking the Protectorate after the travesty that was the fundraiser, but that didn’t change the fact that there were still plenty of laughing fingers being pointed in his Empire’s direction.

Letting the ABB’s new pet parahuman go without reprisal would make his Empire look weak.

It would make him look weak.

And if there was one thing he learned from his father, it was that weakness kills.

Scouts had reported what seemed to be Asians of varying types scouting out the edges of his territory, and considering the “White Dragon’s” attacks on his men, there was war on the horizon. Max's lip curled at the thought, a sneer of aristocratic disdain. As if those mongrels could hope to challenge the might of the Empire. But still, the insult could not be borne. This 'Hardkour' needed to be taught the error of his ways, and swiftly.

It was obvious to anyone with a working brain that the already unstable gang would crumble without a parahuman at the helm. Above all else, they would devolve into infighting, or simply vanish into obscurity without a powered hand to guide them.

His Empire was in no real danger.

But that would only last as long as he made a decisive strike.

He would teach the new "White Dragon" a lesson that he had avoided teaching Lung. A lesson written in blood and pain, a message that would reverberate through the underworld like a thunderclap. Cross the Empire, and pay the price. It was a simple calculus, really. But then, simpletons often required a firmer hand to grasp the complexities of the world.

The Asians would be taught their place.

And anyone that dared to laugh would understand why the name Kaiser was one to be feared.

His Empire would not fall.

He would-

“Welcome to Channel 5 News: Brockton Bay's CapeWatch Channel.”

Max froze as a sound from the far corner of his office drew his attention. A droning voice, the unmistakable cadence of a news anchor, emanating from the sleek tablet perched in pudgy hands.

“Chip Walker here, am I coming in clear?” The voice was tinny, slightly distorted by the device's speakers, but still recognizable as that insufferable Walker. Max felt a flicker of irritation, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. 

“Loud and clear, Chip.” The tablet's volume increased slightly and Max had to actively resist the urge to grind his teeth. His gaze flicked to the couch, to the hunched figure sitting there in a gray hoodie, engrossed in the screen.

Theo. His son and heir, in body if not in spirit.

Max took in the boy's soft, rounded features, the pale blond hair so like his own, and felt a now-familiar rush of disappointment, tinged with an emotion he refused to name. Fifteen years old and still so childish.

It was Max's own failing, he knew. 

He had been too lenient, too forgiving of the boy's weaknesses. He had allowed sentiment to color his judgment, permitted the potential his beloved Heith had birthed into the world a chance to falter out of a desire to avoid being the monster his own father had been.

Thus far, Theo had proven a decidedly poor investment.

“It seems like the city is always on fire, and that’s why the news is always hot,” the news program droned on, Theo's doughy face rapt with attention. 

Max felt his irritation calcify into something harder as he continued to listen, staring at his son out of the corner of his eye. The boy was too soft, both in body and mind. He lacked the killer instinct, the iron-spined ruthlessness that had seen him succeed. He spent his days sequestered in his room, face buried in books or glued to a screen, insensate to the realities of the world outside their gilded walls.

“Two people died in what seems to be a double homicide, their bodies found outside-”

Max's eye twitched, the inane chatter scraping at his nerves like nails on slate. He had indulged this distraction for long enough. He whipped around, eyes narrowed. “Theodor!”

He kept his voice level, but imbued the single word with an unmistakable note of command. The effect was immediate and gratifying.

Theo jerked upwards, grip tightening around his tablet for a moment, the device still blaring with the news program, before he glanced over in the direction of his father, his expression blank but distinctly nervous despite showing little emotion otherwise. "Uh-uh, y-yes, sir?"

Max allowed the moment to stretch, his gaze boring into the boy's wide grey eyes. He noted the way Theo seemed to shrink into himself, the subtle hunching of his shoulders, the unconscious attempt to minimize his presence, and his frown deepened at the sight of it all. Pathetic.

"I believe I made myself clear, Theodor," he said at last, each word precise and razor-edged. "These meetings are not to be interrupted by these distractions. You are here to learn, to observe, to begin the process of preparing yourself for the duties that will one day fall to you as my heir. Not to waste your time with nonsense."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Theodor stared blankly at his father as the man continued to berate him, the words fading away to little more than a drone as he nodded at what he knew were the appropriate moments. His mind wandered, drifting away from the oppressive atmosphere of the office and the weight of his father's disapproval.

Gotta love these father-son bonding moments, Theo thought dryly, his face carefully neutral. Nothing quite like a good old-fashioned dressing down to really bring the family together.

It was an art, really, the way he could tune out his father's voice. 

Years of practice, of enduring the same tired monologues whenever the man found some new reason to be displeased with him. Theo had learned to read the patterns, the ebbs and flows of his father's rants. He knew when to nod, when to murmur a quiet "Yes, sir" or "Of course, sir", just enough to maintain the illusion of attentiveness.

But, as usual, his mind was elsewhere.

Truthfully, he knew that his father wasn’t really irritated at him.

Not really.

It's not really about me, Theo mused, grey eyes tracing over his father's face, noting the faint tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. It never is. This is just... overflow. Runoff from whatever's really eating at him.

Truthfully, if he could muster up the energy to care, he might actually be annoyed at that. That even his father's anger, his disapproval, was just a secondhand thing. Table scraps from the emotion that Maximillian Anders reserved for anything outside of family.

His father had perfected the art of ignoring him whenever he was in a good mood. Anything less than that and he might decide to grace his only son with a few words of wisdom that could be summed up in short as: “The best is the minimum for any Anders. You must exceed everyone else. Also, lose some weight.”

Not quite that succinct, but he didn’t really have it in him to be anywhere as wordy as his father.

Simply put, he knew not to take it personally. Granted, it still hurt but it had less to do with him and far more to do with his father’s… extracurriculars. 

Theo's gaze flicked away, skittering over the fancy office furnishings. The gleaming glass and metal desk, the stark modern art on the walls in polished silver frames. All of it carefully curated to project an image of sleek, unbothered power.

Anders have an image. We have to be perfect, Theo thought, his eyes returning to his father's face as he mimicked the man’s voice in his head. 

But Theo saw. 

He had learned, over the years, to look past his father’s attempt to manipulate. 

The slight stubble on his jaw, barely noticeable against pale skin. The faint disarray of his perfectly coiffed hair, a few strands out of place. To anyone else, they would have been unremarkable. Trivial.

But to Theo, they were a glaring neon sign.

Something's wrong. It could be many things, Theo knew.

His mind raced, sorting through the possibilities. The Empire had been making moves lately, capitalizing on the power vacuum left by Lung's defeat. Theo knew the broad strokes, even if he was rarely privy to the details. Recruitment drives, pushes to expand their territory. The usual song and dance.

But there was more to it, more than that.

The events of Friday night hung heavy in his thoughts, the images still fresh and raw. Four Empire capes, routed by the ABB's new warlord. Granted, half of them were greener than Astroturf, but even then, you didn’t have to be part of the Empire’s inner circle to know the bare bones of what had transpired there and how bad it was.

Truthfully, anyone on the East Coast with an internet connection and a curious mind was probably aware that the Empire had struck against the ABB again and bit off more than they could chew.

Pics of Stormtiger with arms hanging limp at his sides had already been made into memes on Parahumans Online, one of the more liked ones of his own creation.

Not that he would ever admit to that, but still.

He could imagine how that must have galled his father. The great and powerful Kaiser, outmaneuvered by a kid in a costume. It was the kind of humiliation that he knew would eat at the man, especially considering the van incident just a few days before that.

It couldn’t be just that, though.

Right?

His father was many things, but he was not a brooder. 

What’s going on here? Theo schooled his face to avoid a frown from showing as he kept his gaze on his father, eyes dull as his thoughts went elsewhere. It has to be Empire related but… what?

He knew the Empire was making moves. He had known that since Sunday afternoon when Kayden had asked him to watch her apartment as she prepared to leave.

--------------------

--------------------

He'd been in the living room, on the couch, trying to lose himself in the pages of a paperback he’d purloined from his father’s shelf— a book titled The Lacanian Subject— when she'd walked into the living room, coming to a stop right in front of him as her shadow fell onto the page he was on.

"Theo? Can we talk for a moment?"

He held back a sigh, marking his place with a dog-eared corner. "Yeah, sure."

He raised his gaze to take in Kayden standing there, a strained smile on her face. Theo had taken in the scene, his eyes flicking across her face, noting the tension around her eyes, the tightness in her jaw.

Something's up, he thought then, a familiar sinking feeling in his gut. Something big.

"I need a favor," Kayden had said, her voice too bright, too cheerful. Like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. "I'm going to be out of town for a few days. Visiting family in upstate New York."

Theo just stared at her, his expression carefully blank. Visiting family. Right.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew what this was, what it meant. The Empire was making moves, and Kayden was part of it. So much for I’m done with your father.

"It's been forever since Aster saw her grandparents," Kayden had continued, the lie sitting heavy and awkward between them. "And I thought, well, it's about time, you know?"

Theo had just nodded, a slow, mechanical bob of his head. 

Why are you telling me this? he wanted to ask. Why are you pretending like I don't know what's really going on?

But he hadn't. 

He just sat there, silent and still, as Kayden had shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Anyway," she said, her smile faltering. "I was hoping you could keep an eye on the apartment while I'm gone. Water the plants, get the mail. That sort of thing."

He just nodded again, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. "Sure," he'd said, his voice flat and lifeless. "No problem."

Kayden had looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, Theo had thought he'd seen something like guilt in her eyes. Like she knew exactly what he thought about her, how much disdain he held for both her and his father.

But the moment had passed, and she just flashes him another brittle, false smile. "Great. Thanks, Theo. I really appreciate it."

And then she'd been gone, sweeping out of the living room in a rush of floral perfume and unspoken apologies.

--------------------

--------------------

He had paid attention. He'd watched, and he'd listened, piecing together the scraps of information that floated his way.

Purity, Crusader, and Rune, all out of the city at the same time and in New York. The Empire's heavy hitters, the ones with the cleanest records and the most impressive powers.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what that meant.

Recruitment, Theo had realized, the pieces falling into place with a sickening clarity. They're recruiting new capes. Building up their forces.

But even as Theo had come to that realization, even as the pieces had fallen into place...

He'd missed something. Something big, something important.

And now, as he sat there in his father's office, listening to the man's clipped, cutting words, watching the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes...

Theo realized what it was.

Fear.

His father was afraid. Afraid of something, or someone, out there in the city.

Theo's gaze caught on his father's face, on the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the strands of hair out of place in his usually immaculate coif.

Small details, easily missed. But to Theo, they were as glaring as a neon sign, a blinking red warning that something was very, very wrong.

He's rattled, Theo realized, a cold certainty settling in his gut. Something's got him spooked. Something big enough to shake the unshakable Maximilian Anders.

And then, with a sudden, sickening clarity...

He knew what it was.

The Empire had been blooded. Their capes beaten, their forces routed by the ABB's new warlord.

Hardkour.

The name hung in Theo's mind, a specter of violence and brutality. He'd seen the footage, had watched the shaky cell phone videos that had made their way onto the internet.

A figure in black, moving with a speed and grace that was outright inhuman. A blur of motion, a whirlwind of destruction that had left Stormtiger broken and bleeding, Hookwolf's men literally torn apart.

It was a display of power, a gauntlet thrown down at Kaiser's feet.

And Theo knew with an iron certainty that his father would not let that challenge go unanswered.

He's going to war, Theo thought, a numb sort of horror settling over him. He's going to crush Hardkour, to grind him into the dirt. And he's going to burn the city down to do it.

It was a bleak realization, one that sat heavy in Theo's chest. He knew his father, knew the cold, ruthless calculus that drove the man's every action. Maximilian Anders would not tolerate a threat to his power. He would not allow an upstart like Hardkour to challenge his authority, to make him look weak.

He's going to kill him, Theo thought, a sick certainty twisting in his gut. He's going to kill Greg.

And there was nothing Theo could do to stop it.

But even as the thought formed, even as the darkness threatened to close in...

Theo felt a flicker of something else. 

He didn't know how, didn't know what he could possibly do.. But he knew that he had to try.

I have to warn him, he thought, the idea taking shape in his mind. I have to warn Greg, give him a chance to prepare, to fight back. If his father found out, if anyone in the Empire discovered what he was planning...

I'll be dead, Theo thought, a grim certainty settling over him. Or worse.

But…

"Sir!"

The word burst out of Theo's mouth before he could stop it, his inner voice screaming at him as he watched his father freeze mid-diatribe. The man's pale blue eyes locked onto him, a burning intensity in their depths that made Theo's blood run cold. Why did I say that? What was I thinking?

The room was silent for a moment, the tension stretching like a rubber band about to snap. Theo fought the urge to squirm under his father's gaze, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Interrupting me now, Theodor?" Max finally spoke, his voice deceptively calm.

"N-no, sir," Theo answered reflexively, the words tumbling out in a rush. He blinked, realizing his mistake. "I mean, y-y-yes, s-sir. Uhhh, I m-mean…" What do I say here?

Max let out a laugh, the sound sharp and cold, like the edge of a knife. "You must have an excellent reason for interrupting me," he said, his eyes never leaving Theo's face. "So go ahead. Speak."

Theo swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything to say. Just... just say something. Anything.

"I was just thinking about how you were right," he blurted out, the words feeling clumsy and awkward on his tongue.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting him to continue.

Right. He always thinks he's right, Theo thought bitterly. Gotta stroke that ego, make him think I'm hanging on his every word.

"I mean, you were right about how I am lacking in composure," Theo said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "And I'm simply not putting myself out there like I should. I'm bringing shame to the Anders name because of it."

Max stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Am I supposed to be impressed that you can parrot my words back to me?" he asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is this what you interrupted me for?"

Theo felt his face flush, a hot rush of shame and embarrassment. "N-no, sir. I was… I was just thinking about cousin Greg and…" Actually speaking to his father was surprisingly hard, the words tumbling out despite himself. It was so much easier being monosyllabic.

"And?" Max prompted, his eyes narrowing.

"And how he's… been working on himself," Theo finished lamely, mentally kicking himself.

Great. Just great. Way to sound like a total idiot, Theo.

"...Continue, Theodor. Finish your point."

Theo swallowed again, his throat feeling tight and constricted. "I wanted to know if I could… I think spending time with him would be good for me. I could learn how to better stand out."

The words hung in the air, heavy and awkward. Theo braced himself, waiting for his father's response.

But Max didn't say anything. He just walked over to his desk, pulled out his chair, and sat down, his movements smooth and deliberate. He stared at Theo, resting his chin on the back of his raised palm, a thin, mocking smile stretching across his face.

"That's idiotic," he said at last, his voice flat and dismissive.

Theo felt his stomach drop, a cold, sinking feeling in his gut. He didn't say anything, didn't trust himself to speak.

"That boy is just like his father at that age," Max continued, a slight laugh escaping him. "He might be your godbrother but never forget that the Veders come from a long line of blowhards with more ego than common sense. You think you'd learn how to stand out from that little fool?"

He shook his head, leaning forward in his chair. "No, son, you'd be in his shadow for as long as you were around him. Let me tell you something, loud idiots will always get the most attention. So, if you think I'd let you around that boy for that reason, you're more disappointing than I thought."

Theo felt the words like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left him breathless. He opened his mouth to say something, to defend himself, but nothing came out.

"I…" he started, his voice small and weak.

"However," Max cut him off, his tone suddenly thoughtful. "If there is one thing I learned from Rowan Veder, it's how to manage and handle fools. I wouldn't be anywhere near the man I am today if I wasn't friends with that man, as sad as that is."

He let out a scoff, shaking his head. "I know that boy will incite a rage in you that you will barely be able to handle. And honestly, I think you need that more than anything else at this point. I expect you to spend at least three afternoons with him every week, are we clear?"

Theo stared at his father, his mind reeling. After a few moments, he just nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "Crystal, sir," he said, his voice sounding hollow and distant to his own ears.

Max leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Good," he said, his tone final. "Now get out of my office. I have work to do."

Theo didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, legs feeling like rubber beneath him.

As the door closed behind him and the automatic lock beeped, the chubby teenager let out a shaky breath, heart still pounding in his chest.

Damn, I left my tablet in there.