Chapter 18: Chalk
STAY WITH ME: A Superhero Novel
Hector Welles’s manor sits atop a cliff overlooking the temperamental sea below. They live just barely within the city’s limits but still far-off from civilization. It’s quite a drive from the manor to Welles Corps. It’d be an enjoyable ride through the forest, if it wasn’t for Welles’s only companions being their driver, Clancy, and whomever they’re on a conference call with. In Welles’s world, it’s work, work, work. Never rest, never sleep.
Within the manor, there’s very little that is extraneous. There’s no maid, no butler, nor any housekeeping. Just Welles, except for the summers when Matthew stays with them. Little details often get overlooked: an uneven throw blanket on the couch, a wrinkle in the tablecloth, water spots on the silverware, a packed dishwasher always waiting for just one more dish.
Estreya’s most wealthy bachelor stands in their kitchen while oil sizzles on the frying pan. The white, fleshy swordfish cooks slowly, the pan lightly braising the seafood with speckles of brown crust. Welles gently flips the fish over and lifts up their cutting board. It’s loaded with an array of diced criminis, shiitakes, and leeks. They gently brush their knife against the veggies, and they cascade down. Welles gently spins the cutting board around the pan, the veggies falling in a neat circle around the swordfish.
Next, Welles walks over to the boiling pot of water. They dip their wooden spoon in and raise it back up, now with strands of linguine hanging off the end like drapes. The pasta wavers slightly with the sway of Welles’s arm. They tilt the spoon, and the pasta slips back into the pot. Welles then leans over the stovetop and sets the oven’s digital timer to one minute.
“Hey Dad!” Matthew Welles sticks his head into the kitchen. Dressed in a slick black suit, he holds his thick, padded backpack straps tightly.
“Oh! Uh, hello, son,” Welles says with a quick glance over the shoulder. They delicately stir the veggies. Liquid bleeds out of the mushrooms while the onions become translucent. “I apologize. Didn’t hear you come in.”
Matthew furrows his brow. “S’alright.” He paces around the kitchen island and gives his Dad a quick one-armed hug. Looks down at the food. “Stroganoff? Smells good—”
The timer goes off. Ding-ding-ding!
Welles rushes to the pot. Carefully lifts it off the stovetop, steam briefly veiling their face, water vapors tickling their flesh.
“—you want help, Dad?” Matthew finishes.
Welles frowns as they pour the hot water through the strainer. “Oh no, no. Just uh, take a seat. I need a few to make the sauce.” They spin the pot around by the handles and set it down in the sink then move to the fridge.
Matthew’s eyes stay glued to the sink, his hands twitching eagerly at his sides. “How about I do some dishes while you get through ‘em?”
Welles leans out of the fridge, a can of coconut cream in one hand and a lime in the other.
“Son,” they say sternly at first, but quickly their mouth shifts into an amused grin, “You’re good. Relax.”
Matthew nods, still unconvinced, and sets his backpack down underneath one of the stools. He hops on up, crossing his arms under his chin.
Welles twists the knob to the can opener, the top breaking off from the coconut cream. They roll the lime onto the cutting board and in one swift motion, slice it in two. Next, they drag over a bowl. Spoon some cream in followed by a healthy squirt of lime juice. They mix it together with one hand, while their free hand pours vegetable broth into the pan. Then a few flashes of soy sauce.
“I thought stroganoff usually used sour cream,” Matthew observes.
“Ah,” Welles says, distracted, “I learned it a different way. From an old vegan friend of mine.”
“Mm,” Matthew hums, “So um… how was your day?”
“Ah. Yes. My day,” Welles repeats with a hitch of anxiety, “Work is… well, lots of gabbing this week for me. A few podcast appearances, a lecture at Theodore Blackman University, and I don’t know, Norton really wants me to make an appearance on his stupid show. The Brain Trust at HQ says do it, but I don’t—what’s that look for?”
Truth be told, Matthew does give his father a funny look. Sly and knowing, his mouth briefly unearths itself from behind his curled arms. He cringes to his mouth’s fullest extent but elects not to say anything.
Welles stares at their son, utterly confused, yet slightly amused all the same.
“Son?” they say.
Matthew raises his head. “You’re doing all these appearances to talk about Nightmare, right?”
“Generally, yeah,” Welles says, “Who better than their biggest advocate?”
Meekly, Matthew raises his phone to Welles. Playing on the screen is a video. Heavy metal music plays to a supercut of the Nightmare taking on Bruno. A voiceover cuts in. “Terra Labs Inc., as I’m sure you all know, is just an affiliate to Welles Corps. And Welles? They lie, lie, lie. Empty promises. I can’t prove it yet, but Welles controls the police. And I am making it my sworn duty to stop them. For the people of Estreya!”
Welles’s jaw sacks in dismay. Their posture tenses, and they straighten their back, mouth curling into a deep scowl. They watch the video play out unblinkingly. Then they pull the wooden spoon out of the sauce. They curl a paper towel around the end, twisting it about to clean off the remnants of food and sauce, then extend the spoon to Matthew.
“Son?” Welles rasps.
“Dad?”
“Take over,” they say, “I need to make some phone calls.”
“I apologize about that. That, uh, took longer than I thought. Check your phone for me, why don’t you?” Welles sighs nearly a half hour later.
Matthew nods while peeling layers of tinfoil off the dishes of stroganoff, sending clouds of hot, hot steam into the air. He sets the tinfoil aside and picks up his phone. Promptly, he finds that the video of Nightmare is gone, replaced with a DMCA claim. He looks at his father, who sits adjacent to him at a long banquet table.
“That was fast,” Matthew says.
Welles smiles weakly. “Well, the video was filmed at a private event where participants signed NDAs. Unfortunately, it sounds like two activists snuck in undercover and made it past Clancy… which isn’t that surprising admittedly. Either way, there’s no one to throw the book at. Not that we really need to, I suppose.”
Matthew frowns, some hesitation in his eyes.
Welles furrows their brow. “You think we should leave it alone. Matthew, kid, the video makes it look like I’m at war with the Nightmare, I don’t think—”
Matthew extends an index finger into the air, and Welles quiets down.
“People have already seen the video,” Matthew explains. “And the people who haven’t, who still want to, will find a way on the Dark Web.”
Welles considers him. Sets their hands on the table. “Transparency.”
“Exactly!” Matthew smiles, “It’ll make it easier for you to make a statement. Tell people your side of the story.”
Welles closes their mouth for a moment, thinking. They throw on their public speaking voice. “Welles Corps. claims no connection to this incident, but we thank Nightmare for her handling of the AI that went rogue at this weapons’ showing.”
Matthew raises an eyebrow at such PR talk. “So you’re not connected to Terra Labs Inc?”
Welles exhales with some exasperation. “It’s complicated. The truth is…” Their voice trails off while they find their words. “...the Nightmare is at war with me. She’s convinced that I am their enemy. It’s ridiculous really. After all, her enemy is my enemy.”
Matthew once again finds himself furrowing his brow, but he can’t help but smile at the honesty flowing between the two of them.
“Commissioner Seiro seemed happy when he left the other night?” he suggests.
Welles cocks their head back. “That’s business. We talk nice, cater to the more banal parts of conversation, stroke an ego every now and then. It’s salesmanship, Matthew. When we go back to our desks, it’s business as usual.”
Matthew leans forward in his seat, hanging onto every word.
Welles flashes their teeth at the attention. “It’s ugly behind-the-scenes. Both with the police and the Nightmare.”
Matthew frowns. “Do you mean… that wasn’t your first brush with Nightmare?”
Welles nods gravely. “No.”
The tension lingers there for a moment. Matthew looks at his father imploringly, but the dark gaze in Welles’s eyes shuts him down fast. Matthew looks down at his lap, fidgeting.
Welles tries to smile off the tension. “You like Nightmare, yeah?”
Matthew nods warily. “That’s… cool, right?”
“Of course!” Welles crosses their arms at their chest. “There’s no sides here. We’re both trying to accomplish the same thing, and eventually, she’ll see that.”
“Oh man,” Matthew groans, “this is the divorce all over again.”
Welles releases a wild bark of laughter and shakes their head.
“Really though,” they say, “Nightmare wants an Estreya that isn’t victim to the police. So do I. So do you. So do many of us. But… I’m sorry—shop talk. We should talk about you. How’s school?”
Matthew shakes his head, long blond hair swaying against his cheeks. “No, Dad. It’s real talk. I like it.”
Welles’s hesitation fades at their son’s approval. “It’s just… she’s done nothing wrong… yet. But I know where this story goes, and one day, she’s going to go too far.”
“What do you mean?” Matthew frowns. “Like… she kills a cop?”
“Maybe,” Welles says, “Or maybe she inspires some ideological rot in copycats who are a little more frugal with the violence. Or maybe her operation grows into too large a threat, one large enough to kickstart a war. And who knows—maybe that war will pave a better future. We won’t know until it happens, but a lot of people will die. And those folks don’t get a say in that.”
Matthew is entranced, his eyes wide. He hangs on a moment longer before realizing his father is done speaking. He draws back with a curious expression on his face.
“What do you got for me?” Welles challenges.
Matthew considers them then shrugs it off and plays aloof. But there’s a glint in his eye that says something different.
“That’s a hypothetical, though,” he says coyly.
Welles frowns.
Matthew frowns back. “I mean, I’m just saying… what if you’re wrong about her?”
Welles sighs with serenity on their face. “Then I suppose I’ll be wrong.”
Matthew opens his mouth, and a flurry of questions within him surge ahead… but he stops himself. Settles on something simpler.
“Why do you advocate for her?” he asks.
“Nightmare needs someone big in her corner,” Welles replies, “No one wants to take a stance against the police in this city. There’s retaliation for that sort of thing. These are people, monsters really, who can bend and break the law as they choose, and no court will ever rule against them for it.”
“Wow,” Matthew says, suddenly a little downcast, “Wait, so—uh—what’s the plan here?”
Welles’s face falls in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“With Nightmare.”
Realization dawns on Welles’s face, and their expression cooly smooths over.
“Ah,” they rasp.
“I mean,” Matthew says, “she’s out there fighting your, uh, robots, I guess, making you look like Lex flippin’ Luthor. How are you going to convince her to join your side?”
Welles exhales a rough, fatigued breath, and a familiar coldness settles into their dark eyes, a coldness that Matthew picks up on immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he course-corrects, “Too much?”
“No, no,” Welles says, “It’s just, uh…” They force a wide smile and shrug, gesturing meekly with their hands. “It’s a sensitive topic right now, that’s all. And though your input is supremely helpful, son, there’s factors at play you don’t know about.”
Matthew’s eyebrows fall slightly, framing his face in curiosity. But whatever it is that draws his interest, he doesn’t comment on it.
“Thanks Dad,” he says instead, “This is great.”
Welles forces a winning smile though their eyes remain stoney. They nod at him as a form of reassurance but alas, Matthew remains inquisitive.
“Can I ask you something?” Welles asks suddenly.
“I’ve asked you many a thing,” Matthew says, finally digging into some of his food.
“There’s a kid you go to school with… Katrina Gawain. You know her?” Welles asks.
Matthew mulls this over. “Trans girl with a prosthetic arm?”
Welles nods, suppressing a flicker of excitement.
“Yeah!” Matthew exclaims, “She’s cool, we watched a video about the Nightmare together.”
Welles’s expression remains still. “Wow.”
Matthew raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Welles says, “Does she, uh… seem alright?”
Matthew’s eyebrow remains raised. “I guess. I don’t really know her. Uh, why do you wanna know?”
“Ah, well.” Welles scratches their nose. “That vegan friend of mine that I mentioned. Old trans guy, Lucius Gawain, he, uh, he’s her Dad and just came out of a coma, and I, er… haven’t checked in or anything.”
“You should get on that,” Matthew says, mystified at his father’s lack of proper conduct.
“Well…” Welles rubs their knee. “...we separated on bad terms. It’s complicated. And then he got shot in the chest and passed out for a month.”
“Whoa,” Matthew says, “That sounds like a hate crime and a half.”
“It wasn’t a hate—” Welles starts to say, raising a finger to the air, but very quickly they retract their hand, shaking their head. “—sorry. It could’ve been. I guess.”
Matthew folds his lips inward and crosses his arms at his chest. He takes the matter seriously and scratches his chinny-chin-chin, then looks up with inspiration.
“We should invite them over for dinner!”
Welles’s lips flap feebly. “Wh-what? Son, I don’t know if…”
“It’ll be fun!” Matthew exclaims, “I know Kat, you know her Dad, we put out a nice spread, you reconnect. I, uh, connect—regularly. I guess. Yeah! That sounds good. Next time I see Kat—”
Welles meekly raises their hand, and Matthew stops talking.
“My people will call his people,” they say.
Matthew leans back in his seat. “Alright. I’m holding you to it, Dad.”
The two smile at each other for a moment, but the moment passes quickly. Welles gets out of their chair,
“Son, I’m just going to step out for a few, okay?” they say, “I just remembered: one last phone call I gotta make.”
Moments later, Welles steps out onto their balcony overlooking the ocean down below. The black tide rolls in and out, crashing against the cliff face. Welles rests their hands on the banister, quietly taking in the salty smell of the sea. But the moment passes, like all quaint moments do, and they grab for their phone.
“Yeah, Boss?” Clancy says on the other end.
“Contact Sally,” Welles says darkly, the grit of their true voice returning to them with ease, “Tell him I’d like to see him tomorrow then book me a flight to New York.”
Nightmare makes fools of the pigs. While playing defense at a protest, she gets playful. She uses her Nightblades to force a few pigs into a high stakes game of hot potato: The Nightblades smack the pigs’ wrists over and over, causing them to lose their grip on their guns. Guns fly through the air, the pigs give chase, and the Nightmare strikes again. Nightblade after Nightblade pelts into the pigs’ wrists every time they come remotely close to recapturing their gun. They hit hard enough to stun but not hard enough to wound
“Officer Blake, you’ve made five catches in a row so far! You guys should all look up to him!” Nightmare taunts.
This is archive footage, filmed about two weeks prior. Commissioner Seiro and Welles sit together in a small black box theater located in Surveillance Central, watching the projected footage.
Seiro watches from beside Welles, the curve of his jaw lined up with the fold in-between his thumb and index finger. He watches the chaos with boredom and resentment, though his eyes occasionally flit over to Welles with interest. Meanwhile, Clancy huffs in the back, arms crossed at his chest.
Welles looks over at Seiro. Considers letting this embarrassing moment play itself out in silence, but they’ve got a flight to catch soon.
“Is there a point to this?” they ask harshly.
Realizing he’s slouched deep into his seat, Seiro sits himself back up.
“We’re losing the war, Hector,” he says dryly.
“Ah,” Welles hums sarcastically.
“Hector.” Disappointment lines Seiro’s voice. “Don’t be glib. You know this. We’re losing on every front. She’s made a mockery of our men. Public opinion is falling. The news hates us all of a sudden—”
Welles elegantly extends a finger to the air, silencing Seiro. Seiro groans, hiding his face behind his hand.
“Not us. You,” Welles says, “You are losing the war. You are losing the public’s faith. The newsrooms are coming down on you. And I am not involved.”
“You know what I mean,” Seiro scoffs.
Welles looks back at the screen. Once again, a pig has somehow lost their pants.
“Perhaps you’re misunderstanding the terms of our relationship, Commissioner,” Welles says.
Seiro nods. “Right. I apologize. Perhaps I should be more forward—”
“Please do,” Welles snips.
Seiro makes a frustrated face at Welles, like Can you believe this guy? and looks at the screen. “Nightmare’s got her sights on you. She’s gonna hit you hard. We can protect you.”
“You can’t even protect yourselves,” Welles sighs.
“Because we don’t collaborate! Listen—brass tacks. Your friend sitting in Internal Affairs, Roscoe, he’s been singing… like a bird.”
Welles turns on Seiro, embers burning in their eyes. “What… why would he—”
“He doesn’t want to do the time, he’s scared of the inside.”
“We got him down to six months!” Welles says, exasperated. “It’s all he had to do—why did your people even bring him into IA? You don’t play ball with my people, you look the other way—”
Seiro flashes a smug, knowing look. “Perhaps you’re misunderstanding the terms of our relationship, Hector.”
At first, Welles is livid, but slowly, the corners of their mouth flip into a glowing smile. “...You gonna turn that back around on me? Good for you!”
Seiro dips his head lower, index finger sliding up past his temple, all in an attempt to conceal his blush.
“I needed a win,” he offers meekly.
“You did!” Welles says cheerfully, “I see where this is going: Roscoe told you about the, er, item we were selling to William Dudko, and you want it for the EPD. Not going to happen. Besides, Nightmare took it anyway.”
“But I’m sure there’s more where that came from,” Seiro says, “Listen, last time Nightmare flew for twenty years. You held this stalemate with us the whole time—but I’m the commissioner now, Hector. It’s easier to slip these things through… yet we’re having the same conversation thirteen years later. Do you really want to do this again?”
Welles shifts about uncomfortably. Sets their focus on the screen. Itches themselves under the collar.
“It’s different than before, I just need time,” they say. A deep sigh, and they crane their neck back to Seiro. “What did Roscoe tell you?”
“Everything.”
“Everything,” Welles repeats stiffly. They lean back against their seat until they lock eyes with Clancy in the back. Welles lazily raises their hand up past the shoulder. There’s some business with the fingers where some rise in a wave then fall back down in a different pattern. The fist clenches suddenly, and Clancy nods. Silently, he exits the theater. All the while, Welles stares straight ahead.
Seiro watches this all curiously and furrows his brow. “Do I want to—”
“No,” Welles croaks, “You don’t.”
“So I used to work with this guy, some of youze mugs might know him! Marlon Pavoratti. Usually though, he just goes by Knives, on, uh, account of his prickly behavior.”
Some titters from the audience.
A man in a silver suit paces across the stage, speaking into the mic. He has pinkish skin with a sharply cut goatee. White and gray creeps into the edges of his beard, and his messy black hair hangs past his forehead. He’s lean with a mean grin. Salvatore Cagan. He wears his suit open with a dark green shirt, unbuttoned at the top. A golden chain hangs from his neck.
The club is seedy, the lighting is dim. Most of the patrons sit in shadows. They are powerful people: billionaires, police captains, executives, gangsters, and more. It’s a Who’s Who of the riff-raff of New York City.
And at the center table, seated by themselves, is Welles. They sip at a martini, an amused smile stretched across their skull.
Cagan continues his act, “So one night, we’re doing a job together. We’re taking on the fuckin’ Nightmare. Now, I’m not talking about the new Nightmare—you know, Jesse James about to rob his train with that stupid mask—” And he mimes the Nightmare’s new mask across his face, much to the delight of the audience. Cagan soaks in the praise and continues, “—no, I’m talking about the Old Guy. Y’know, the Nightmare that the new Nightmare calls the Old Guy.” The audience is silent. Cagan considers them. “None of you know about this? There’s an audio recording of it, ya gotta look that shit up. I mean, the kids these days?” He grips his tie and jerks it around. “No respect, huh?”
Welles scoffs. Cups a hand at their mouth. “That’s not your bit, Sally!” they call out.
Cagan furrows his brow and searches the audience. Finds Welles fast and points at him with delight. Skips on his heels in place. “Hey! Look everyone! It’s Hector Welles! Hector fuckin’ Welles! They’re the one who got me started doing all this malicious bullshit! Of course, nowadays, seems like my guy prefers evil robots to the real muscle!” And at that, he flexes his arm, not showing much muscle at all. Suddenly, something pinches in his arm, and he yelps like a puppy. “Ow!”
The audience titters with laughter. Welles shakes their head, cackling softly, a gleam in their eye.
Cagan waves off the pain and continues, “Anyways, we’re toe-to-toe with Big N, and I drop the ball. I mean, I really. Drop. The fucking. Ball. And Knives… oh, Knives, he ain’t happy.” Cagan swings a claw at the air, grabbing at an invisible object. He pulls it close and leans in, dropping his voice to a guttural baritone. “Sally,” he grunts, and the audience gives into another wave of laughter. Cagan laughs too, cracking up at his own impression. He returns to the mic, his brow furrowed, his face serious. “Sally,” he repeats, “when we get out of here, I am gonna stab you in the fucking throat. And then I’m gonna kick ya in the groin ‘til it don’t hurt no more. And then I’m gonna—” Cagan leans his backwards, returning to his normal voice. “He goes on and on, man.” Leans back in, voice back on. “—such and such, and I will such and such, and blah blah blah. I mean, guy never gets to the fucking point and—”
“Hey!” a voice calls out from the audience. Heads turn all over, and a spotlight hits a shadowy man at the back of the room. They stand in perfect silhouette and speak sharply, their voice an almost perfect imitation of Knives. “You fuckin’ clout chasing rat! I’m right fuckin’ here, huh?”
The silhouette gives into a wave of coughing, all while the audience roars with laughter. The figure throws their elbow over their mouth and bends over, the edge of a chain smoker’s raspy voice escaping through his wheezing. He straightens back up and extends a finger to the air.
“I’m gonna nail you in the fuckin’ throat,” the apparent-Knives announces, “and then I’m gonna set ya stupid beard on fire. And after that, I’m gonna—”
The threats continue on and on, the comedian milking the bit for what it’s worth. Throughout the club, the audience eats it up. They laugh and laugh. But not Welles. No, Welles sits at their table, cheek and chin leaned up against their hand. They smile at Cagan, attempting to lock eyes with him.
Cagan notices. Smiles at Welles.
Welles raises their martini glass, and Cagan walks over to his barstool on stage. Lifts up a glass of whiskey.
The two clink glasses from afar.
A bowling ball crashes down the alley, veers left then suddenly curves right. It swerves towards the center pin—
—and completely misses. Falls into the gutter and Fwoomp! disappears into the void.
Cagan’s confident grin falls into insecurity. Dressed in a lime green polo and khakis, he dips his hand backwards. Rolls his fingers across one of the bowling balls until he finds the notches to grip. He lifts the ball up to his chin, throwing all his focus into this one movement.
“I still say it’s dishonesty in comedy,” Mugsy whines, dressed in full mobster apparel as usual. He stands besides his bud, Vinny.
“You ain’t even lettin’ us try our tight fives at the club,” Vinny whines.
“It was a good impression, Mugsy,” Welles offers, standing at the score machine with their arms crossed at their chest, “The audience loved it. You should be proud.”
Mugsy sticks his round nose into the air. “Thank you. Though I resent the compliment.”
Welles shakes their head, a quiet laugh under their breath. “How are these two doing for ya, Sally?”
Cagan readies his swing. Chances a look backwards at Welles. “They’re pretty inept, not gonna lie, but they make for good set dressing.”
Vinny tugs the lapels to his trench coat forward with pride. “It’s the apparel.”
“And the personality,” Mugsy boasts.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cagan groans, “You guys are fucking likable, whoop-dee-friggin’-doo.”
“Ha!” Mugsy cries out, “You hear that, Vinny? We’re fuckin’ likable!”
Vinny is unimpressed. “Of course we’re fuckin’ likable, ya reprehensible palooka.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mugsy swears, rubbing his jaw, “You gotta cool down, man.”
Cagan practices his swing. Practices again, more forcefully this time. Closes his eyes tight, dips the balls backwards, lunges forward into a mighty throw that—
—completely skips over the gutter to his alley. The ball escapes into the alley over and—
Strike!
Ten pins fall to somebody else’s game, crashing like thunder.
“Hey, what gives?!” the dude using the alley over screams.
Welles cackles, “Good prank, Sally.”
“Oh yeah,” Cagan sighs, “that’s me. The Master Comedian, always doin’ bits and shit. Yeah. Definitely.”
Cagan grabs at the next bowling ball in line and looks down at it. Lazily, he holds it back over his shoulder. “This one’s a little dusty. Mugsy, can you give her an ol’ shine for me?”
Mugsy steps forward. “Hey, no problemo, Boss.”
Welles smirks and raises their ball to Vinny. “Would you mind doing this one for me, Vinny?”
Vinny’s nostrils flare. “Eh, y’know, pal, dis ain’t really in our job description.”
Cagan shakes his head. “C’mon boys. Welles is family. Show ‘em some respect.”
Reluctantly, Vinny takes the ball over, muttering under his breath. “The union ain’t gonna like this.”
Welles rolls their eyes.
Meanwhile, Cagan takes the ball back from Mugsy and cartoonishly sways his hips from side to side while lining up his next throw. “So… I heard you got some nightmares eatin’ at ya.”
“Something like that,” Welles says, “Want to pick my brain over it, Doctor?”
“I’d be humbled!” Cagan goes for the throw. The ball slams into the wood paneled floor, and… knocks down one pin. Cagan droops as the rest of the pins are swept away.
Welles pats Cagan on the shoulder. They step forward, and the moment the pinsetter drops down the ten targets, Welles hurls the ball down the alley. Six pins fall. “I keep having this one where my main competitor is toppling my business to the ground.”
Cagan, still stewing over his bad roll, listens carefully. “Well, you could always kill her. Uh! That is, uh, kill her—” He looks around nervously. “—uh… metaphorically.” He grabs for his next ball. Lightly tosses it up and catches it. “But also literally.”
Welles turns back, the disappointment generally reserved for Clancy etched across their face.
“I can’t,” they say.
“Metaphorically?” Cagan asks.
Welles groans and lazily throws their ball down the alley. Crash! Two pins fall. The pinsetter resets everything. Meanwhile, Welles grabs two balls. Sets them down in a column on the floor. Gently kicks one backwards, towards the pins. Waits a second, then kicks the next one. Both balls roll slowly down the alley while Welles watches Cagan.
Cagan winces, unsure as to what to say.
Leaving it to Welles. The billionaire looks down at the floor, shakes their head, and then looks back up at Cagan.
“She reminds me too much of him, and I don’t like making the same mistake twice,” they say.
Cagan folds his lips together, mulling this over. “With all due respect, I think you are already making the same mistake twice. If we just, uh, y’know, took care of the Old Guy before he became an old guy…”
“No!” Welles says sharply. Crash! One pin falls. “It can be different this time. She has something he doesn’t.” Crash! Another pin falls, as does the pinsetter. It resets, and Welles steps aside, making way for Cagan.
Cagan massages his bowling ball, fingers coming in and out of the notches. “So uh, obviously, I’m not the best at this metaphor thing, maybe you could…” Daintily, he arcs his arm backwards. Readies his throw. Steps forward and—
Welles says, “I think she should work for me.”
—and Cagan jolts, once again making a complete misfire. The ball dives down the wrong alley and—
Strike!
“Again?!” The bereaved bowler from the alley over stomps the floor. “Come on!”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad of an idea,” Welles ignores the irate man screaming at them, “She hates my guts, but I don’t think she’s doing this to stop me, she’s doing this to help people. So am I.”
Cagan scratches his head, still distracted by the bowler practically frothing at the mouth. He grabs for the next ball. Something to fidget with. And he looks Welles hard in the eye.
“I don’t know if what you want is possible, man. At least from, uh, an outside perspective,” he says.
“She’s young,” Welles says dismissively, “She’ll learn eventually that my way is better.”
Cagan’s face falls, and he looks down at the ball in conflict. Shakes off the nerves, summons all his gusto, and locks eyes with Welles.
“I’ve been tellin’ ya the whole time, man. The person you need ain’t her.”
Welles blinks at Cagan in confusion. “Who then?”
“It’s Mattie,” Cagan says with significance, “He’s got what it takes.”
Welles shakes their head. “He’s soft.”
Cagan shrugs. “So are you.”
Welles’s jaw locks into place, and they scowl at Cagan for a moment.
“I get it,” Cagan says, trying to braveface his way through it, “He’s your kid, you want to keep him pure, but Hector… I’m tellin’ ya, man, it’s Mattie. Not Nightmare.”
“I don’t care about keeping him pure,” Welles replies, “I can’t do that. I can’t shield him from the reality that… that we are who we are. Nothing can change that.”
Cagan frowns. “So then what is it?”
“What is what?” they ask.
“What is stopping you from doing what is necessary?” he says.
Welles frowns. Opens their mouth—
Cagan raises a hand. “Not now. Don’t say it now. Just… think about it, man.”
Welles nods slowly, their mouth melting back into a resting scowl.
Cagan continues, “Don’t get me wrong. If you truly see what you want to see in her, and you care about her, in that twisted kinda fucked up way… maybe you’re right. But if you can’t… I know a person.”
Welles scoffs, some of the tension fading. “Sally, I don’t need contacts.”
Cagan grins greedily. “While you and Clancy have been resting on your laurels the past few years, I’ve been out here shakin’ hands and meetin’ people you couldn’t believe. You heard about, uh…” He drops his voice to a whisper. “...what happened to ol’ Don Moll out here, right?”
Welles furrows their brow. “What do you… wait. You?”
Cagan nods. “Yeah. This woman I hired, she’s the best at what she does. She had to cut through his whole posse to get to him, but she did it. Dead as a doornail. Even let me do the honors.”
“That was you?”
“I told ya, man…” Cagan turns on his heel. Bows low to throw his ball. “...I got contacts now.”
He reels his arm back for a mighty throw and Bam! all the pins go down before he can make his play.
The bereaved bowler from before laughs manically from an aisle over, having hurled a ball into their aisle himself.
He screams so everyone can hear him, “HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?!”
Welles and Cagan look at each other in dismay then break into laughter. Welles claps a hand on Cagan’s shoulder, and the two mobsters look at each other fondly.
Welles releases Cagan from their hold. “I’ll think about it, Sally. And if it comes to it, I’ll call ya. Got it?”
Welles stares out the backseat window to their town car, lounging back in their seat. Their black eyes are downcast yet focused. They stare at the passing city streets, watching for every arrest that passes them by. One in particular disturbs them. Seems to be an eviction. An elderly man is dragged out of his home by his thin arms. His husband follows after him, crying, begging for the cops to stop the madness.
Welles knows these officers. Neither passed the thorough background check that Welles Corps. provides. Jenkins and Hartwell, both of them have connections with white supremacist groups from their college days. They still donate to those groups every now and then, and that was enough for Welles Corps. to say “Do Not Hire”. However, at the end of the day, Welles can only make a recommendation. Seiro overrides it all.
For now at least.
Ideally, Welles would merely instruct Clancy to pull over. Welles would roll down the window and glare at the two cops. A dark glance through a crack in the window. That’s all it’d take, but again, these cops don’t know the deal in town. In this case, Welles is powerless, just like everyone else.
Meanwhile, a female voice drawls on the car’s speakers. Boring, listless legalese about a new park that’s being developed in the Oven. The voice talks mostly about the new benches and who they will be dedicated to, and the words mostly fall to the back of Welles’s mind.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. Welles leans forward, presses down on the unmute button to the conference call, and speaks. “Need I remind the council that the proposed benches do not cooperate with the standards of recently passed legislation.”
A pause. The woman says, “Mz. Welles? Uh, would you care to elaborate?”
“Gladly,” they say, “There are loops sticking out along the seating of the bench, just high enough and just spread out enough to keep someone from laying down on them. Do I need to spell this out for the council?”
“Uh, no. That’s true. There are loops now that I, er, see them. We can get right on that.”
“Good,” Welles sighs, looking back out the window, finger poised to once again mute themselves, “This park is for everybody, and that includes homeless people. I don’t care what the EPD says. If one of their higher-ups makes a complaint, guide it to me, and I’ll handle it.”
Mute.
The meeting continues, and Welles continues their forlorn gaze out the window. That is, until they spy something. An apartment complex with an indoor courtyard, they remember signing off on this one a year back. Welles taps on the barrier separating them from Clancy, and the tinted window lowers. Clancy glances back over his shoulder.
“Pull over,” Welles says.
Clancy nods. Puts his eyes back on the road and turns the town car to the right. “Parking lot?”
“Just drop me off out front,” Welles says, signaling for Clancy to raise the barrier between them, “Do a lap around after. I won’t be long.”
A minute later, Welles finds themselves standing at the steel gate to the apartment complex. They stand there for a moment, telling themselves not to intrude. They sigh. Shake their head. They reach out to the Welles Corps. branded security console on the gate and input their personal password. The gate buzzes loudly. Welles opens it and shuts it behind them.
It’s a two-decker apartment complex with twenty units on each floor. It pleases Welles right off the bat to see so many flowers and trees grown within the complex. A pool is at the dead-center. Several children are in it, playing and laughing away the extreme heat. It’s perfect. Exactly what they had envisioned.
Welles touches the leaf to one of the bushes. It’s large, larger than their hand. Perfectly curved and smooth to the touch. They run their fingertip down the length of it then look up to the second level. Two families from neighboring units seem to be having a barbeque.
Welles walks down the narrow pathways. Looks around, largely satisfied. Turns on their heel to head back to Clancy, when suddenly they hear the instantly recognizable sound of chalk scuffing concrete. Curious, Welles diverts and moves deeper into the apartment complex. Peers behind bushes to the source of the scuffing.
A little girl stoops over the walkway in front of her home, scratching art into the pavement. She draws with red and blue. At first, Welles sees beauty in what the girl draws. Entranced, they step closer, but not close enough so as to be seen. More than anything, they don’t want to disturb this place with their presence anymore than they already have.
And then Welles realizes what the little girl is drawing: Nightmare.
The girl lacks black chalk, so she outlines the Nightmare in blue, letting the black pavement fill-in the color of the armor. The cape is long and bright. The head is squished in and small. But the drawing is undeniably Nightmare.
A dark, sober expression crosses Welles’s face. They turn on their heel and leave the complex.