The real test in doing the right thing…is when you can do so, consistently, when no one else knows about it.

The Universe has a way of righting all wrongs—making sure you reap the rewards of your decisions. Both good and bad.

“Are you ready?” Morty called, grunting as he tightened the last bolt. He stood back too quickly and had to grab the side of the PROMIS to keep from falling off the ladder.

“Calm down, sweetheart,” Deloris answered, working diligently on the wiring, “you’re going to hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”

“Are you kidding?” he laughed, “What does that matter? This is IT! I’ve done it!! All the labor, the heartache…even the backstabbing weenies from the government can’t stop me now!”

Deloris laughed openly, “Then yes, Morty, I…am,” she tightened the final screw on the coupling, “…ready.” She got to her feet and dusted herself off. “It looks good down here.”

Rubbing his rubber gloves together, he inspected the outer shell of the device, then peeked into the side port of the magnifying chamber. Everything was in order, aligned and connected. Year it had been. Years of inspiration and effort, met by scorn and disbelief. Now was the very moment he’d been waiting his whole adult life to experience. Vindication. He gave his invention an affectionate pat. Power cables had been attached from the base of the PROMIS, across the floor and hardwired into the main power box of the warehouse. The theory here was that if the device produced enough energy, it would travel outward, overriding the government controlled electricity and power the grid.

It was hard not to feel emotional about it and he sniffed, wiping his face on his lab coat. There had never been a time that this was not foremost on his mind. It was what his father had always dreamed of doing. Of what he’d planted in Morty’s heart as a child. Freedom for the people.

He looked longingly at Deloris. “I’m almost too nervous to do this.” Clearing his throat, “What if I’m wrong again?”

She smiled in the way only she could. “You’re not.”

Taking a deep breath, he let his forehead rest against the cold metal of the device and whispered, “This is for you, dad.”

He flipped the switch.

The first chamber, where the primary motor sat, rumbled to life. Drawing from the main power of the grid, the shard chamber opened, flooding the PROMIS with bioluminescent light. The floor of the room shook as the generator rumbled and whined, switching over to a perpetual loop—feeding off its own production of energy. Within moments, the rumbling softened—becoming an even vibration that hummed like a large bladed fan.

“What’s happening?” Deloris blinked. She held up her hand, the lights in the warehouse intensifying.

“It’s working!” Morty gasped, “It’s…working!!” Sliding down the ladder, he grabbed his wife’s hand. One by one, the overhead lights intensified. A glance at the controls confirmed that all the energy output readings remained within the optimal range. With a squeak of glee, he pulled her out of the lab. Down the hall he raced, flipping on every switch he passed.

“Where are we going?” Deloris giggled, trying to keep pace.

“Outside! Let’s go see the city!!”

Deloris followed her husband, who laughed all the way. Out the front door and into the streets they ran.

It had been the first time either had stepped out doors since the riots had started. Smoke rolled up into the night air, camouflaging the flashing signs and billboard adverts that normally lit up the skyline.

“Oh my…what’s happened?” she asked, but Morty wasn’t paying attention to the actions of others.

His eyes were fixed on the nightlife above them. Like a wave, out from the warehouse the energy came—the bioluminescent miracle, seeping through power lines and feeding the street lamps and porch lights. The dull yellow flared, burning brightly, casting off shadows. It spread.

Like a wave in the ocean, every light of the city caught fire—glowing and growing brighter and brighter still. Higher and higher the wave rose, until it reached the Citadel itself—the tallest building in Clockworks. Like a lighthouse, the monolith building flared—it’s outer lights, installed up each outer seam, producing a pure white light that reflected off it’s silver mirrored surface.

Morty cheered and screamed out loud, tears streaming down his face. Throwing his hands into the air, he danced wildly in a circle.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!” Thrusting a fist towards the sky, “WE DID IT, DAD!

Deloris did not join him in the celebration.

The smile of joy, not so much for the achievement, but for her husbands happiness, faded.

Instead, her attention remained fixed on the highest buildings and skyscrapers of the city.

Morty grabbed her hands and raised them high as he danced around her. They fell to her sides as soon as he let go. “What’s wrong?” he asked, skidding to a halt. He stared at her curiously. “Deloris?”

Her eyes glossed over.

It was then that Morty turned and followed the trajectory of her stare.

In the distance, someone screamed. The single sound rose above the commotion of the night, cutting through the smoke and heartbeat of the city.

It was followed by another. And then another.

Lights exploded. At first the occurrence seemed random—sending a trail of sparks here and there, but it multiplied. Arcs and trails of sparks ripped through the open sky around the Citadel. Like a great fountain being turned off, the outer bulbs of the building glimmered brilliantly one moment…and then altogether vanished.

One by one, buildings vanished on the horizon.

The street light over Morty’s head exploded, raining hot sparks upon them.

“Mort…” she said nervously. Deloris’s hand reached out to him, finding nothing but air.

“No…,” Morty gasped, “this isn’t right.” Fingers tore goggles from his head. “It can’t be—I was right this time!”

Before he could exhale his thought, Clockworks plunged into darkness.

****

President Shrub awoke to the penthouse alarm…an incessant beeping. The backup generators had kicked on, enabling only the essential systems of the building to function. This meant moving about by the dim blue lighting installed in each room.

He blinked and took a deep breath. He stretched—first one hand, then the other, adding in a deep yawn.

Surprisingly, he felt rested.

The last thing he could remember clearly was his conversation with Ian. Uneasy feelings crept into his mind as he recalled the albino’s justification. Steps had been being taken to protect the administration. Shrub turned to his side, pushing up on his forearm. Bright spots formed at the edges of his vision—and he had to grip the side of his bed to keep from falling off.

These last few years started to make sense. Hints or complaints that the children left him, concerning Ian. Were they all true? Had he brushed aside information that could have prevented all of this? As noble as Ian’s intentions might be, it was not the place of an assistant to circumvent the authority of the peoples leader. He had to be stopped.

“The children,” he shook his head, remembering what he’d done hours ago. His heart ached. Were they safe? Were they together.

He frowned, his mind fuzzy. Had it been hours? Or longer…?

“Hello?” he called out loudly. He waited for several minutes, but no one answered.

Odd. There was always someone working in the penthouse—specifically staff. Someone to tend to both the President and the children.

“Guess you’re on your own,” he grunted. Snatching his glasses from the nightstand, he put them on.

The wheelchair was out of reach, making it impossible for him to leave the room.

Grabbing the I.V. stand next to him, he yanked the liquid pouch free and tossed it to the floor. Keeping a firm hold on the bed, he leaned forward and used it to hook the side of his wheelchair.

“Come on,” he grunted, dragging it closer. “That’s it.”

Once in the wheelchair, he used the stand to hook under the door and prop it open. It was difficult to propel himself along the carpet. His muscles felt weak, his mind still foggy, but he pushed on, banging out into the hallway.

The penthouse was completely quite apart from the alarm. A fast, cold breeze whipped down the halls, rustling his thin clothes. Shrub shivered, his medical gown not much better than naked flesh.

Bang…bang…bang…

A faint sound, barely heard above the penthouse alarm.

It only took rounding the last corner of the hallway to see why it was so breezy. The center of his living room area contained the frame of a S.L.A.G., which had—at some point—crashed through his window and embedded itself as part of the living quarters. Glass lay everywhere, the giant plate window demolished. Millions of shards littered the floor, while…

“What in the name…” and bullet holes riddled the walls.

Bang…bang…bang…came the sound again.

“What in TGII?” Shrub exclaimed, but the initial shock quickly changed to horror as he wheeled beyond the kitchen counters. His hands grabbed the wheelchair, stopping his momentum.

Bodies littered the penthouse.

Bodyguards and Centurions in full riot gear lay crumpled over one another, sprawled out across the tiles or hunched in corners. One was face down in a giant planter.

Bang…bang…bang…

The sound was loud and clear now. The door to his private office.

A door that he always, meticulously locked.

Maneuvering through the maze of bodies, Shrub rolled the wheelchair cautiously through the office entryway.

The narrow room, considered his personal sanctuary from prying eyes, contained a desk, one cabinet with supplies and a single window. Similar to the living room, this window had been shattered, though the hole was much smaller.

Fwip-fwip-fwip.

Pinned to the center of his desk, rustled a single piece of paper. The wind whipped it about, but the ashtray Kip had made in second grade held it firmly in place.

Rolling to the other side of the desk, Shrub slipped the paper free.

My Dear President,

I just can’t take it anymore. All the bad things I have done, many of them in your name. I even hired an assassin to kill the Gnolaum.

Yes, it’s true.

You may want to think highly of me for some reason, but don’t.

I’m a complete dirt-bag.

Wanting to do everyone a favor, I jumped out the window.

Just use my severance pay to clean up the mess below.

Signed,

Ian Twofold

P.S. Don’t forget to buy Buddy Keisler’s new book, which comes out next week. It was life’s only guilty pleasure I never regretted.