Courtesy Call
The room was cloaked in the pallid glow of a sickly yellow light, its feeble attempt at penetration thwarted by layers of aged newsprint masking the windows. A heavy air clung, saturated with the bitter tang of stale cigarettes, musty mildew, and the pungent bite of chemicals. The once-ghastly floral pattern on the wallpaper now hung in tatters, peeling and curling at the edges like forgotten memories.
Tick.
Occasionally, the passing headlights of cars outside would send a fuzzy shaft of light probing through the makeshift fortress, illuminating a macabre gallery of photographs meticulously pinned and suspended on twine. A state senator, furtively casting glances as he emerged from a car, accompanied by his conspicuously younger paramour. Further down, a lieutenant of the Azn Bad Boyz, cigarette in hand, perched on the rusted fire escape of a defunct cannery.
Tick.
A solitary red lightbulb swung with measured indifference from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows that danced out of sync with the weary, battered alarm clock, an artifact of a bygone era, in the days before the first parahuman. Next to it, the hotel's touch-tone phone had seemingly been the victim of some sort of electronic cannibal. Wires snaked from out of its exposed base across the room, where they disappeared into a formidable tape recording device.
Tick.
The recording equipment was a cumbersome assemblage of metal and plastic that bore the unmistakable imprint of government-issue functionality. Certain parts had been modified or wrapped in tinfoil to prevent any electromagnetic disruption. A finger that left no print flipped a switch, causing a miniscule red light to blink. Reels of magnetic tape began to whirl and spin, emitting a gentle hum that covered the footsteps of its activator as he walked over to the receiver.
Tick.
They would surely be meeting at the rented cabin they called a clubhouse by now. Each man was a product of a passive resentment long boiled over, their beliefs shaped through various ways. For the treasurer, it was the torment he'd suffered at the hands of a group of Brazilian youths in high school. For the vice-president, it was an interest in the burgeoning hardcore punk scene. And for the leader, it was his uncle, currently rotting away in a trailer park in Allentown. But more than anything, most of these men had received their most critical lesson in prison: Stick with your race.
Tick.
He cared not for these lessons, merely their status as a branch of Empire 88, whose shaved heads and swastika tattoos dominated a section of Brockton Bay's criminal underground. The man in the motel began to dial a number, recorded on a complimentary notepad he'd found in the desk. The dial tone grumbled in his ear for about a minute before he heard a familiar click and the sound of a gruff voice. It was none other than the club's president, known as Gruumun.
"Who the hell is this?"
Tick.
He had no true voice, at least not one you could pick from a crowd. But on the call, he was Johnny Wei, an underboss of the Azn Bad Boyz. Wanted for racketeering, drug trafficking, and a veritable smorgasbord of weapons and powers charges according to the PRT file.
"You know who this is."
The second the words, delivered in Wei's foreign lilt, left his lips, the clock stopped ticking. The recording machine stuttered, the room momentarily bereft of its subtle hum before it resumed. The challenge with these calls was never the voice or the electronics, but the emotion. It had to sound convincing, as if the message didn't come from Wei but from someone higher up in the power structure. To sound as if a man like Wei, renowned for his ruthlessness in dealing with rival gangs, genuinely desired negotiation required a particular level of finesse. He was quickly met on the other end by a voice barely containing fury, and perhaps a hint of fear.
"the fu-How'd you get this number? This even a secure line?"
"My superiors have ways. I call because they want to make peace. Tonight."
Silence for a beat.
"Why's that?"
"Feds coming after both of our clubs, it's better for us not to fight so much."
While it was technically the truth, the DEA bust of a Brockton Bay heroin shipment and a recent lawsuit against the discriminatory hiring practices of one of Empire 88's money-laundering fronts couldn't have happened without some very well-placed evidence and an anonymous tip.
"So? What's in it for us?"
"You might be privy to certain business opportunities if you meet at the Charter Hill gas station at three a.m."
Gruumun's voice crackled with suspicion, but there was a cautious interest in his tone.
"You're saying we just turn up and everything's hunky-dory? I don't buy it."
The man maintained the facade, his voice steady and unruffled. Since Ventura, nothing fazed him anymore. Buckshot was merely a test, and it seemed the universe had revealed that he had passed.
"Think of it as a show of goodwill. We have a common enemy, and it's in our mutual interest to resolve this amicably. You have my word that this meeting is not a trap."
A skeptical pause on the other end. One could practically hear the gears turning in Gruumun's mind, weighing the risks against potential gains. Hook, line and sinker.
"Alright, Wei. We'll be there. But if this is a setup, you better believe there'll be hell to pay."
"Understood," replied the man, his tone still measured. "Let's not make matters more complicated than they need to be. We both stand to gain from this arrangement. Until then."
The phone line went dead, and silence enveloped the room once more. The man in the dimly lit motel room settled into an uneasy calm, knowing that time was ticking away in more ways than one. He approached the tape recorder, its lone red light still blinking in the dark. His hand reached for the eject button. A cassette tape emerged with a soft whir, its plastic casing bearing no discernible markings, a blank canvas for the secrets it held within. With the tape in hand, he carefully labeled it with a date and a cryptic code before placing it aside. It would join its predecessors, a growing library of carefully cataloged conversations, each one a potential leverage that was absolutely essential for the events to come. After ejecting the tape, he switched off the recording device with a decisive click, plunging the room into a true silence.
Tick.
His gaze turned to a sight that lay limp next to the tape—a distorted face, twisted in agony and madness as it tore the flesh from its infant son's body. Francisco Goya had once painted it directly onto his house, but now it belonged to him, or at least it did to one of his identities. Its torn edges and vacant eyes bore witness to the crude modifications it had endured. Holes punctured through the canvas, forming a makeshift mask, a sinister visage that stared back at him. He stepped closer, the frayed edges brushing against his fingers, a shiver of anticipation coursing through him. Mere hours remained, yet many more would pass before everything was in place, before he could reveal his true face, the one he held in his hands.
Tick.
Time continued to pass, and he still caressed the canvas of the mask. Only an exceptional mind could have created such a face, one so perfect in its depiction of the old titan.
How many faces have I used? How many will I use?
With a sense of purpose, he carefully positioned the mask, feeling its rough edges against his skin. The holes aligned perfectly with his eyes, shrouding him in an unsettling visage that mirrored Goya's twisted creation. As the last strap settled into place, he caught his reflection in the grimy motel mirror. The transformation was complete.
He heard the distant thud of the explosion. Now, his plan could truly begin in earnest.
He couldn't help but laugh.