The window was right above the bridge of the letter ‘H’ embedded in the structure of the skyscraper itself. From that vantage point, half of the city could be seen. As for the other half, a brisk walk must be taken to the other side of the floor spanning office. Of course it wasn’t just an office. One who spent a lot of time in a place naturally wanted it filled with creature comforts and sentimental familiarity.
Beside the desk wrought in solid wood there was a shelf too tall for normal people to easily use. It was filled with books. Contemporary, aged, ancient, from recent years to a time of papyrus. It was not sorted because it made no difference to Helena Hegemon. Historians separated things into ages to make the scope of time understandable and relatable. To the owner of the office, it was just the age, always then and now. She remembered the time her mother consoled her on her first flower of blood inside their tiny hut, the same way she remembered the schism that birthed the Byzantine Empire: as though it were days ago, if she found the memory worthy to keep. Not all memories had the same weight. On that shelf there was a piece of charred rope she kept in a vacuum-sealed, glass box, next to pristine pieces of pottery and trinkets curators would drop their jaws at. But said curators would make little of that piece of burnt rope. To Helena it was a remembrance of Joan—one of the few friends she bothered remembering—and of the folly of man and their myopic tendencies.
But something distracted her from it. An event. She watched as all the heroes in her part of town scrambled over the rooftops below to converge on Newtown Bank. Like little bugs hopping from block to block.
A classic crime, bank robberies. Foolish, and interestingly suspicious. She did not need binoculars despite the distance. The heroes were stumped. She could surmise the point of the masks on the perpetrators since they were not immediately put to sleep by Cormigieu. Fire and smoke and chaos made it difficult to acquire information on the situation, and so the heroes waited to act. The city block was swarmed by paramedics, police, and heroes, much like the body’s immune response to an unknown infection.
She was enamored with it. A break from normality. These were the events she dwelled on as they occurred. Who knew when something would happen again? But the fates must be repaying a karmic favor, for the phone on her desk rang. She allowed the call.
“Speak.”
“Ma’am?” A panicked voice said over unintelligible sounds in the background. “There’s someone going through the labs on fifty-fourth! He’s gifted, security can’t stop him! Should we call for a heroic response?”
“Something tells me you would be put on hold,” she said.
“Wait… he didn’t take anything. He’s headed up.”
“Is that so? Take care of your people, Jenkins. Don’t worry about it.”
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She ended the call, and sat back in her chair, an heirloom-worthy piece made of the skins of a variety of animals, including the morbid choice.
The double doors to her office—made of heavy slabs of ironwood—shattered open. A young man stepped inside. He wore sweatpants. A dark t-shirt revealed arms tight with muscle and prominent pectorals. He strode towards her desk with a confidence that meant one of two things; bravery, or ignorance. When he stopped a few feet before her, she noted a third option: pain.
“My name is Paulo Ramos-Ortega. I have reason to believe weaponry you supplied are responsible for the murder of my family. Prove this is untrue and I will leave immediately. Or tell me who requisitioned the design.”
Seconds passed. Silence.
“Dammit, woman. I am—”
“Running out of time?”
“Becoming desperate,” Paulo corrected. He walked forward and primed a swing of his fist. He did not use a significant portion of his strength; he had intended to intimidate. But his fist was stopped in Helena’s palm before it landed on her desk.
“You’ve destroyed enough of my furniture,” she said.
Paulo pulled, but his fist was not relinquished. He increased his strength. Still the woman did not budge, not even when he used all his might. Then he used none, and relaxed. Helena let go.
“If I recall recent memory,” she said, “I believe I watched it happen.”
“What!?”
“But I am afraid you would be unable to pin responsibility on any particular individual. There isn’t a name for the organization that asked for what I sold them. Even the general I spoke to was a proxy. They are acting on behalf of national interests on a global front.”
“Still, your people made those weapons,” Paulo said, seething.
“Not really. I designed them,” Helena said. “My people do not move without my will.”
Paulo could hardly believe what he was hearing. Not the content of it but the tone it was delivered with. The way she looked at him, bored, deadpan. As if he was a pest and she was leisurely contemplating if she ought to swat him or let him go. But he could not leave. This was an unsatisfactory result to months of planning.
“I-” He began.
“I sympathize,” Helena said. “I do not shirk responsibility. Feel free to despise me if you feel like it. If I understood the context of the weapons trial, your father was the target because he wouldn’t play by the rules. Alkalova was an exceedingly harmful substance within our borders before it was regulated. Your ilk was hunted from the beginning. You could say the deal my government gave your family was supposed to be a gift, despite the poison you’ve smuggled to our children.”
“I- We were not responsible for the demands of the product.”
Helena raised a brow by just a hairsbreadth, the only change in her expression since the beginning of the unexpected meeting.
“Just as I am not responsible for those who demanded your father be killed,” Helena said. “But as I have said. I do not pretend I didn’t have a hand in your father’s death—”
“And my sisters’!”
“—I simply don’t care.” Helena left her seat and extended a hand towards the door. “You have nothing to gain here. I must ask you to leave.”
Paulo eyed the rest of the office, searching for something, any leverage at all.
Helena noticed. “I have forgiven your tantrum, given the circumstances,” she said. “But break any more of my belongings at your peril.”
“This isn’t over,” he said as he walked back to the permanently open door. “I hope God can forgive you, you inhuman witch.”
She had already returned her attention to the spectacle at the bank. She heard the remark, but it did not reach her. Worse things have been said to her by more pious men. And far worse things have been done, to her and by her onto others. She would remember this meeting, but it was unlikely that she would think of it again.