Greg Veder vs The World

Cutscene: Snake In The Grass

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Thomas Calvert massaged his temples as he leaned back against the high back of his chair, the cool leather relaxing against his skin. The room around him was steeped in shadow, broken only by the dim glow of his desk lamp, which cast angular shadows across his face, accentuating the deep lines of frustration etched into his dark skin.

Frustration was a word he was very well familiar with.

Failure, not quite to the same extent.

The walls of his study seemed to accentuate his irritation, absorbing the sighs and the occasional muttered curse with no echoing or reverberation. Calvert sat in his home office, hands dangling at the sides of his chair as he rested his head back on the cushion of his ergonomic seat and allowed himself the near-orgasmic pleasure of a long, frustrated groan.

The office was meticulously organized, each book and paper perfectly aligned, a physical manifestation of his need for control. The mahogany desk, large and imposing, bore no clutter, only a sleek, modern laptop and a series of neatly arranged files. Despite all this, the man’s eyes were locked onto the dark brown wood that was the ceiling of his little personal enclave, the soundproofing allowing him perfect peace away from everything else.

This role... this incessant bureaucracy... it’s suffocating, he thought, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on the dark wood of his desk. The job was a far cry from the power he had envisioned. His plans had always involved manipulation from the shadows, not being shackled to a desk, mired in paperwork and politics.

He had never truly desired the position of Deputy Director of the PRT ENE; his ambitions had always angled towards more... autonomous roles, if he couldn’t have the top seat. But circumstances and, admittedly, his own machinations had maneuvered him into this unwanted role. To be so close to the power, yet shackled by bureaucracy and that battle-axe of a woman riding my ass, he grumbled to himself, mouth turning down in a harsh frown for a moment.

He was a smart man, he knew that much.

Not the smartest, of course, but his natural mind far exceeded the average.

At the very least, if he wasn’t exceptionally smart, then he was simply surrounded by people so stupid on such a constant basis, it made no functional difference, really.

He’d planned around some rather impressive minds, so he had the right to feel the level of pride in himself that he did.

Yet, it was somehow the stupidest possible obstacle in his path that made him feel like scratching his scalp till it bled.

Calvert leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers tented in front of his lips. He spared a glance at the opposite wall, adorned with a map of Brockton Bay, little pins and markers denoting various points of interest and territories. The silence of the room, usually a balm, now seemed to amplify his irritation. On his polished mahogany desk lay several dossiers, the topmost featuring the latest escapades of Hardkour—no, White Knight, or was it Void Cowboy today? The boy's penchant for changing aliases and outfits was as confusing as it was irritating.

If only the boy understood the subtleties of power... Calvert's thoughts trailed as he considered the young hero. The raw, unchecked enthusiasm of youth, combined with a surprising level of power that apparently seemed to grow, made Hardkour a wildcard that disrupted many of his carefully laid plans.

He picked up the dossier, his fingers tracing the outline of the reports that detailed the boy’s abilities and personality profile as well as another of his nighttime activities the PRT received report of. If the boy were slightly less lucky, he might have ended up in a body bag and saved him all this trouble. Lucky, Calvert’s mouth shifted, flat line becoming a noticeable scowl as he slammed his fists down on the table without warning.

He glared at the file again, the words blurring before his eyes. In addition to his abilities, the dossier on his desk detailed recent activities that disrupted several of Coil’s carefully laid plans. The boy’s unpredictable nature wasn't just a nuisance; it was a variable Calvert hadn't fully accounted for, a variable that was becoming increasingly problematic.

The sudden spike of pain and dull ache in both hands that filled him as quickly as the shout of frustration from his lips faded to nothing only left him feeling more irritated, catharsis be damned.

It wasn’t just the victories themselves that irked him; it was the chaotic, unstructured manner in which they were achieved.

Not to mention…

The dark-skinned man grit his teeth as the memories of countless headaches came back to him, each and every one of them from the prior three months. Recalling them bore no actual pain, of course, but the mass of them brought a ghost of the agony back to the forefront and the man sitting in silence could only hope that the next time he used his power, he wouldn’t have to face another.

The use of his abilities had never come at a cost, but recently, the new repercussions had him nearly spiraling. The splitting headaches, the brief lapses in memory after concluding a timeline—it was becoming more frequent, more painful.

He knew the cause of them, though.

He knew it very well.

Initially, he only suspected.

The odd few seconds of blackness that occurred back in March… short spans of time that he only really seemed to recall after the fact. They were unsettling but not truly an issue, he had assumed it was simply a conflict of some hidden Trump or Thinker working within the city. A problem for the future, certainly, but not an immediate one.

Then the night of the boy’s actual debut…

Well, his suspicions vanished.

He had chosen the ideal timeline out of the two; Lung down and captured, with Tattletale and her crew having escaped freely, assisted by some girl with the ability to control insects.

Yet the moment he chose said timeline, he was hit with a powerful headache, strong enough to nearly make him pass out. He was confused at first, but that confusion turned to near-panic as he reviewed what he thought to have happened and was met with a different series of events entirely, a new individual that he had no recollection of playing the major part.

Calvert's long, thin fingers reached for a glass of water on his desk, the ice cubes clinking softly as he lifted it to his lips. The cool liquid did little to soothe the burning frustration in his chest. He set the glass down with a soft thud, his eyes drifting back to the dossiers spread before him.

"Void Cowboy," he muttered, his low, cool baritone filling the room. "What an utterly ridiculous name."

He flipped open the file, scanning the contents with a practiced eye. The boy's powers were... problematic. Unpredictable. A wild card in a game where Calvert had meticulously stacked the deck. The power he likely wasn’t even aware of… more so.

The rumored Brockton Blackout was true, unfortunately, not that PRT Thinkers weren’t already aware. The closer one got to Brockton Bay as a Thinker — the more likely it is that some or major aspects of their powers would refuse to work or, in some cases, outright backfire.

I've dealt with worse, he reminded himself. I've overcome greater obstacles.

It felt like a lie, even as he thought it. His greatest tool, ripped from his hands unintentionally by a child with developmental issues. He’d been forced to live the last month without them, risking pain and confusion and an entirely wrong timeline if the boy happened to intersect with his plans in the slightest.

No… more than a lie, it felt like a joke.

A Trump with the power to play with timelines in addition to continually advancing potential at a pace surpassing Dauntless. What mad god had thought something like this funny?

Calvert leaned back in his chair once more, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. The soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the room, a white noise that did little to drown out the cacophony of his thoughts.

With a soft sigh, he reached for his phone, his fingers hovering over the keypad for a moment before dialing a familiar number. It rang twice before a voice answered on the other end.

"Sir?" The voice was respectful, deferential.

"I need you to increase surveillance on our... special project," Calvert said, his tone measured and calm despite the turmoil in his mind. "I want to know every move he makes, every word he speaks. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Right away."

Calvert ended the call without another word, not yet settling the phone down. Instead, he found himself staring at it, his thumb hovering over the keypad. A moment passed, then two, before he made his decision.

He dialed another number, this one not stored in his contacts. It rang three times before a gruff voice answered.

"Yeah?"

"I need a list," Calvert said, his voice low and measured. "Effective exterminators."

There was a pause on the other end, then a chuckle. "Sure thing, boss. Any particular type of pest?"

"No," Calvert replied, his free hand drumming a slow rhythm on his desk. "The expansive list."

"Alright, I can do that. Might take a day or two to compile—"

"Any that can be here in under a week," Calvert interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.

Another pause. "That... narrows it down considerably, sir. Mind if I ask what kind of job we're looking at?"

Calvert's lips thinned into a tight line. "A very specific pest that needs expert handling."

"I see," the voice replied, a note of understanding in his tone. "That kind of pest. Got it. I'll get you that list ASAP."

"Thank you, I appreciate your services," Calvert said, his voice softening slightly. "As always, discretion is paramount."

"Of course, sir. You'll have it by morning."

Calvert ended the call, finally setting the phone down on his desk. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the ceiling once more. The weight of what he had just set in motion settled over him like a heavy blanket.

Is this necessary? a small voice in the back of his mind asked. It wasn’t a question of morals, no. The sheer potential that this could backfire had him questioning himself for a moment, wondering if he hadn’t just set dominos in motion he wouldn’t be able to right. He squashed the doubt ruthlessly, after the moment passed. In this game, hesitation was death. He had come too far, sacrificed too much, to let this do him in.

Sometimes, you have to remove a piece from the board entirely, he thought, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. For the good of the game.

He reached for his glass of water again, taking a long sip as he contemplated his next move, Calvert allowing himself a moment of calm. Now, all that was left was to wait and see how the pieces fell.

And if they don't fall in my favor, he mused, his fingers tracing the edge of the dossier, well... that's what contingencies are for.

With a soft sigh, he turned his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk.